Sunrise
by CompanionWanderer
Summary: A chance meeting, a twist of fate, a golden thread added to the loom...and the first rays of daylight fall on one who has lived in darkness. Eilonwy's own story, during the events of The Book of Three.
1. Preface

Preface

This fic was inspired by two things:

One: by the fic _Trying Much, Loving More_, an excellent read by author LMSharp, in which she retells the events in_ The Book of Three_ from the various viewpoints of every character except Taran. I was so intrigued by the idea that it spawned a desire to do something similar. It struck me as a fascinating way to do a character study, in that the events are already plotted for us, so that burden is removed and we are free to simply get inside heads beyond the POV the story was originally written in. In the case of the fic mentioned, the author's intent was to look at Taran through the eyes of other characters to see what it was about him that made such a hodge-podge mix of individuals place their trust in his amateur leadership. A laudable project - but this is where I diverge to my second inspiration.

Two: a conversation I had with a reviewer of _The Castle of Llyr_ on amazon, whose review, though favorable toward the Prydain series in general, was very critical of the portrayal of Eilonwy as the series went on. Her accusation was that the princess's feisty spirit and independence were gradually toned down until, by the end of _The High King_, she was content to fill the stereotypical female role, forsaking her own identity, and the power and privilege of her birthright to fall into submission to her One True Love and live happily, vaguely, ever after. While I disagreed with the premise, I did find myself mulling over several of the reviewer's key points. It made me realize that, too often in my own fic, I have treated Eilonwy as half of a pairing rather than as a fully-recognized individual - unavoidable, perhaps, given my literary crush on Taran. Much as I adore him, however, it is Eilonwy as a character that has always had my heart, and I decided that hers was a story that, on its own, deserved to be told. While I played with the concept a bit in my_ Princess Diaries_, and may one day return to that phase of her life, it made sense to me to start at the beginning of the series. Technically I suppose I could have gone back even further, but for storytelling purposes, the most crucial part of her life begins the day she escapes from Spiral Castle, so that is where I begin.

A note on canon: This fic could be considered, depending on how much of a stickler you are, a bit alternate, or, perhaps, parallel universe. I have discovered that my personal approach to canon is that I think of the characters and events as "real", as though they were not _created_ so much as they were _recorded_ by the original author. I hope this does no disrespect to the beloved author of these books - though actually, I fancy most authors would say they feel the same way about their works. This philosophy affects my writing in subtle ways - the most noticeable being in my handling of dialog, which I do not always copy verbatim from the original. I frequently rearrange, truncate, or make small additions that feel right to me. My goal is to do it in such a subtle way that unless you have the book open in front of you for comparison, you usually will not even notice the differences. I just want to make the disclaimer now, so that I don't get readers pointing out, "he never said that!" or "I don't remember this exchange".

So, without further ado...

This is Eilonwy's story. In my words.


	2. Well Met

The day was darker than usual.

Of course Spiral Castle was dark in general, a moldering maze of creeping shadows even where no shadows should be; where the edges of walls were never quite where you expected them and it was almost easier, sometimes, to close your eyes and feel your way along. Only long familiarity with its eccentricities kept her from tripping over uprooted cobblestones or bashing her head into some odd-angled beam…familiarity, and the faint sense that the castle itself, behind the shadows, grudgingly responded to her will. Eilonwy had learnt in early childhood, over many explorations down endless, twisting passageways that never seemed to go where they were supposed to, that _stop that _thought pointedly in the direction of the nearest wall often resulted in the swift appearance of a familiar corner or archway...and then there you were, at your own chamber door or the kitchen or the great hall, just where it should be after all.

But her will didn't make the place any lighter, so she always carried her bauble with her, to keep the shadows at bay with its warm golden glow. Even now, in mid-afternoon in the courtyard, she kept it lit, fighting the hazy impenetrable gloom hanging over the ancient stones.

Yes, much darker than usual.

There was a tingle in the air, a tense, prickly sensation like the lull before a thunderstorm; it made the hair on her arms stand up and had driven her from the castle's interior. It tasted like Achren's anger, a thing Eilonwy avoided if possible, even when it wasn't directed at her. Ever since that band of nasty half-decayed _things_ had shown up at the gates and infested the castle like a pack of rats, it had been necessary, more than ever, to tread carefully around Achren. It was clear the queen was none too fond of them but was oddly reluctant to send them away. She called them cauldron-born and had flown into a rage when questioned about them.

The morning's magic lesson had been interrupted by some commotion involving them, in fact. Eilonwy had been in the midst of a complicated bit of spellwork, feeling her way through sticky strands of magic like a fly trying to pick its way out of a spider web. As always during lessons, Achren was a dark presence beside her, nudging her mind slowly in the directions the spell demanded - which were not always the directions she desired to go. To resist the queen's instruction, however, was to risk being left alone in a confusing netherworld of strange forces: a place without form or solidity, all ghosting lights and nameless colors, senseless sound and that shrill, metallic taste that filled her mouth whenever she spoke words of power. Whatever beauty there was in it would be swallowed by terror until Achren chose to rescue her, a thing that would not happen until the queen had decided her punishment sufficient. Last time her body had been cold when she was brought back to her senses.

This time, it was a knock at the door and Achren's annoyed, "Enter" that had pulled her roughly back to the natural world. She had blinked, not without a faint sense of relief, and shaken the last of the spiderwebby feel out of her ears just in time to hear a guard at the chamber door announce that a party of cauldron warriors had returned with two prisoners in tow. Achren had looked even more annoyed, but her transformation was instantaneous when the guard produced a scrap of black cloth on which something was embroidered in gold thread. The queen had risen, smacking the books shut with a wave of her red-nailed hand.

"That will do for today."

Eilonwy stared curiously at Achren's face; usually marble-white, now flushed in unmistakable agitation. Hard experience told her that arguing was unwise when commands were given in the tone she'd just heard, yet the sight of Achren discomfited was so fascinatingly unusual that her curiosity was piqued. "Why must we stop? I wasn't doing it wrong."

The queen turned dangerous eyes on her so quickly that she clutched a rune book to her chest in an involuntary self-protective gesture, but it was anger rather than fear that tightened her throat.

"Go to your chambers and stay there until supper," Achren had ordered, and swept from the room.

The warning against disobedience hovered just beneath the spoken words and needed no clarification. Eilonwy had retreated, scowling, and managed to occupy herself most of the afternoon with her books. But her chambers were dull; her casement looked upon nothing but treetops and circling ravens, and as the brooding restless spirit of the place pressed upon her she had gathered her spirits and crept out through less-traveled passageways, for once unencumbered by the castle's tricky maneuverings. Even it was preoccupied.

The courtyard was deserted – mercifully; there was nothing worse than rounding a corner and bumping into one of the hulking guards Achren kept around; Eilonwy preferred even the blank, dead stares of the cauldron-born, who could at least be counted on to ignore her entirely. The open leers of the guards, by contrast, made her blood run cold. Even Achren, in an uncharacteristic fit of seeming to care, had once warned her to avoid them all; taught her a few feathery words that briefly diverted the attention and muddled the focus of the mind at which they were directed, long enough to slip around a corner or into a shadow without being noticed. Men, Achren said, were not to be trusted. Ever.

Not that she put a great amount of faith in Achren's declarations, knowing that lies slid between those chisel-edged white teeth just as often as the truth did. On this particular point, however, nothing in her experience had made her inclined to do otherwise than directed.

Eilonwy sat down on at the bottom of a stone stairway and surveyed the empty courtyard with a sigh. She toyed with the thought of sneaking out of the castle altogether, but the few times she had attempted it had not proven successful. Not that it was difficult to get out – there were several exits, in fact, entirely unbeknownst to Achren – but there was nowhere to _go_ once outside. She knew, from short, supervised excursions hunting for various magical herbs and stones, that the forest stretched endlessly in every direction and there was nothing of note within a day's walk, except one deserted cluster of cottages falling into ruin. The woods themselves were pleasant, she thought; the smells of earth and green things growing were rich and alive after the shut-in dampness of castle air, there were all manner of pretty ferny plants and tiny flowers like stars strewn over the dark floor, and the sweet twitter of forest-birds was entirely unlike the harsh croaking of Achren's ravens. But just now the overcast gloom of the sky did not strike her as a good omen for heading out on her own, even for a harmless stroll through the woods.

She cupped the glowing sphere of her bauble in her hands and then absently flipped it back and forth from right to left, letting it dance over her fingertips in a bit of sleight-of-hand she had invented years ago, a test of manual dexterity in which the orb actually seemed to float in the air while her hands moved fluidly around it. It amused her, and even better, it annoyed Achren, whose gaze upon her bauble had always been indecipherable. Eilonwy couldn't decide whether the queen hated it or desired it, but she had never tried to take it away, which was odd in itself. It had been the girl's constant companion for longer than she could remember, and was the one thing in all the castle she could call her own possession.

Which was what prompted her squeak of dismay when her nimble fingers fumbled for the merest fraction of a second; the dancing sphere flirted over the back of her hand, ricocheted off her wrist, and went tumbling over the flagstones. She was up in an instant, pelting after it, muttering words overheard while hanging about the stables, and hissed angrily when it bounced to the foot of a stone wall and disappeared between the bars of a dungeon grate. Breathlessly throwing herself prone upon the ground, she peered into the musty darkness within.

It took a moment, in the transition to the almost-complete darkness within, to make out the interior, and she started when she realized she was staring into the equally startled face of a person roughly her own age.

She had never seen one before. The queen did not like children; there were no page boys or little scullery maids about Spiral Castle, and it was only through books and Achren's sparing explanations that she knew other young people – among much else – existed. She was so pleased to find such an unusual creature under her very feet that she forgot her ire about her bauble and merely blinked in astonishment for a long moment.

It must be a boy, for he was dressed in a loose tow-linen shirt and rough trousers, both much the worse for wear. His long straight hair was dark and disheveled and there were purple hollows around his eyes, which were regarding her with a distrustful, anxious glare under furrowed black brows.

She wondered if she ought to speak to him. You were just as likely to find a great hero as a desperate criminal in Achren's undiscriminating dungeons, but he didn't look much like either. He looked quite ordinary, in fact, which was possibly the most interesting thing about him. At any rate he didn't look the least bit threatening, which was refreshingly unusual.

And there was her bauble, its light gone, sitting in the dirty straw at his feet like an egg in a nest. She decided to risk it, and cleared her throat.

"Please," she began, "my name is Eilonwy and if you don't mind, could you throw my bauble to me?"

He was staring at her, his expression shifting from fear to amazement, as one might stare at someone who had suddenly begun sprouting horns, or turning purple. It made her suddenly, excruciatingly self-conscious, and she obeyed a frantic impulse to explain herself.

"I don't want you to think I'm a baby, playing with a silly bauble, but sometimes there's absolutely nothing else to do around here and it slipped out of my hands. I was tossing it, you see, and-"

He interrupted her impatiently. "Little girl, I don't—"

The title brought her rushing thoughts to an abrupt halt, and she flushed with indignation. He wasn't listening at _all._ "I am NOT a little girl," she reiterated hotly. "Haven't I just been and finished telling you? Are you slow-witted?"

It was a question Achren had flung at her many times during lessons, and it had popped out before she even thought. A small point of remorse pricked her when his stunned mouth dropped open, and she cast about for a way to soften the blow. "I'm so sorry for you. It's terrible to be dull and stupid."

His jaw dropped further, and she realized this was possibly not the best choice of words either. Unused to being diplomatic, she gave it up for lost and pressed on.

"What's your name? I feel funny not knowing people's names." Not that there had ever been many people around whose names she cared to know, or had any good use for. But he was staring at her more oddly than ever, and she found herself desperately wanting to know his. "Wrong-footed, you know, or as if I had three thumbs on one hand. It's so clumsy-"

"I'm Taran of Caer Dallben," he blurted out, rather abruptly, with the air of giving an answer just so she would shut up. He bit his lip instantly as though he regretted it.

"Oh, that's lovely!" she exclaimed, anxious to reassure him that his name was safe to give. "Really. I'm very glad to meet you." That was what you said, wasn't it, when meeting new people? She wasn't exactly sure how she knew it, as Achren's interactions with strangers rarely involved pleasantries, but it seemed the proper thing. Probably she'd read it in a book somewhere.

He looked doubtful and said nothing else, to her disappointment. Perhaps she could prompt him. "I suppose you're a lord…" No, that couldn't be. No lord would be dressed so plainly. His eyes flickered pleased surprise, however, and she noticed suddenly that they were very green.

"Or a warrior or war leader," she mused. His head rose perceptibly, back straightening, but she had already discarded the idea; he was too young. "Or a bard. Or a monster." She brightened with interest, but his plainness made her pause. "We haven't had any monsters in a long time." The last one had been at least two years ago, but there had been nothing subtle about it, or the mess it had left behind.

"I'm none of those," the boy said, a trace of humor in his voice.

She frowned, puzzled. "What else is there?" He had to be something important. Achren never bothered imprisoning people who weren't; ordinary folks who offended her were done away with quickly so as not to waste resources.

"I am an assistant pig-keeper," he murmured, looking anxious again.

"How fascinating." She knew what pigs were. They figured prominently in several of her books, and were creatures of some status, at least in a few stories. In others they appeared to be merely delicious. "You're the first we've ever had. Unless-" she paused, recalling something. "Unless that poor fellow in the other dungeon is one, too."

The boy's reaction was instant – his figure tensed and he seemed actually to rise a few inches toward her; he must be standing on his toes. "Tell me of him! Is he alive?"

"I don't know." She had not checked on the dungeon's other inhabitant since yesterday morning, when she'd peered into the cell on the other side of the courtyard after hearing a low groan within. "I peeked through the grating, but I couldn't tell. He didn't move at all, but I should imagine he's alive. Otherwise Achren would have fed him to the ravens." She spoke coolly, suspecting the other prisoner to be but another of Achren's lackeys fallen from favor, and rather resenting the boy's obvious interest when he still had not made a move to respond to her request. "Now, please, if you don't mind. It's right at your feet."

He looked down at the golden ball in the straw as though he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh. I can't pick it up. My hands are tied."

"Oh!" She felt foolish for not noticing that his arms were twisted behind his back awkwardly. Why would you tie someone's hands when they were going to be in a cell anyway? Achren must have been distracted with something else when she had thrown Taran of Caer Dallben into her dungeons. "Well, that would account for it. I suppose I shall have to come in and get it."

The expression he turned on her was maddeningly condescending. "You can't come in and get it. Can't you see I'm locked up?"

She bristled at his tone. "Of course I do. What would be the point of having someone in a dungeon if they weren't locked up?" Next he would be "little-girling" her again; he couldn't seem to get it through his head that she was not a foolish child. "Really, Taran of Caer Dallben, you surprise me with some of your remarks. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but is Assistant Pig-Keeper the kind of work that calls for a great deal of intelligence?" There. Let him see how it felt to be condescended to.

The boy's dark brows knit together in consternation; she saw him take a quick decisive breath to retort and braced herself, with no little satisfaction, for a good row.

But it was not to be. Out of nowhere, a jerk at her long hair and a painful grip at her wrist wrenched her up from the ground; she shrieked in surprise before she was muffled in the midst of the swirling chaos of crimson velvet sleeves and air-crackling anger. Pinned against Achren's solid frame, the tangled strands of her own fiery hair twisted around her face and neck, she struck out blindly against the all-too-familiar sound of a leather strap whistling through the air, the loud crack of its contact on the back of one thinly-clad thigh. It stung like a hundred wasps at once, and knocked her breath away on an animal noise of pain.

Achren wasn't particular about where stripes fell; she got them in wherever she could wrangle and jockeyed for a better grip at every opportunity. Eilonwy, anger sharpening her senses, felt the shift in the woman's balance before the next blow and instinctively threw her full weight in the same direction. There was a scuffle, a whirling moment of sky and ground exchanging places. Achren's arm wound up in front of her face and she sank her teeth into it. The queen made a sound somewhere between a scream and a snarl as she jerked free, and delivered a smack to the side of her face that made her ears ring.

For a moment she was too stunned to struggle. Achren grabbed her wrist once more, and in a whirl of velvet skirts and long silver braids yanked her toward a nearby doorway.

"You will obey me, by the gods," she thundered, "or you will suffer for it." She swept down a corridor and down several sets of staircases, half-dragging the girl behind her. Eilonwy, struggling for the look of the thing, carefully observed the route and was not surprised when they came to the end of a hallway and Achren threw open a heavy wooden door to reveal one of the cramped, filthy cells of the dungeon.

Pleased satisfaction tickled her throat, but it wouldn't do to show it. She jerked her arm free of Achren's grasp, glaring at the older woman, whose face had resumed its customary haughty severity. It was a beautiful face, sculpted smooth like marble, with high arched brows, sharp cheekbones and full mouth, but Eilonwy could not remember ever admiring it.

"Since you are so fond of the prisoners' company, you may share their quarters for an evening," Achren sneered, pushing her toward the open doorway. "Perhaps the dungeon will teach you better contentment with your own rooms."

"I hope not," Eilonwy snapped. Flinging the queen's hands from her shoulders and marching of her own volition into the cell, she turned to grab the edge of the heavy door. "If it keeps me out of _your_ company I shall be glad of it." Tingling with rage, she slammed the door shut behind her before the queen could respond, half-expecting her to come storming in for more lashing. But Achren appeared to be less belligerent than usual, or at least, preoccupied. There was a harrumph from the other side of the wood, the clang of the iron bolt, and then…silence.


	3. Novelty

**Novelty**

It was the silence, really, that was oppressive about the dungeons, Eilonwy thought. The silence and the darkness. The thick walls muffled sound so effectively that the quietness actually seemed to press on your ears like a pair of hands. The darkness was complete, thick, suffocating. She was in a level underground and there was no grate in this cell to admit a speck of light. You could get used to dirt and spiders and even being alone, perhaps, but the silence and darkness, never.

She had no intention of getting used to any of it, however. As soon as she was certain Achren was not going to return, she dropped to all fours and scrabbled in the dirty straw underfoot, throwing it aside until she reached the stone floor beneath. She inched her fingers along the seam of one flagstone until she felt a tingle run up her arm, an indescribable sense of _knowing_.

_This one_, she thought determinedly at the castle, felt the subtle shift in its essence. And slowly, the stone seemed to…soften? No, that wasn't it; she never could describe even to herself how it felt to have solid stone part around one's fingers like water; she'd certainly never been stupid enough to ask Achren, who had no inkling of her ability, how it worked. It was something she'd discovered some years ago by accident, some trick combined of her own latent power and the castle's curious, ambivalent sympathy towards her. She'd had many opportunities to be grateful for it before now.

The stone shifted as she worked it loose, got both hands into the widening crack and silently commanded _up_. It rose heavily, scraping its thick sides, and she puffed as she pushed it over its neighbor. She wondered vaguely how much it weighed, certain that she wasn't moving it with her unaided strength alone. It didn't matter, of course, as long as it worked; but as long as magic was involved anyway, she wished she could do it without touching the stone at all. Her hands were always stiff afterwards, for hours.

A waft of slightly less stale air brushed her face from below, and she felt for the edges of the floor where the stone had been removed, braced her hands against them, and lowered herself into the hole left behind. Bare earth met her sandaled feet and she ducked down, paused to get her bearings, and set off into the darkness in the direction that _felt_ right.

She'd never traversed the maze under Spiral Castle without her bauble, and had to admit now that it was an uncomfortable business. Not that she had any doubt of her direction, but the floor was treacherous, and several times she tripped over obstacles and turned her ankles on loose stones. A few times she had to feel her way along a wall, and tried not to think of what else she might touch besides stone and earth. Who knew what lived down here that usually disappeared down dark cracks when her bauble's glow came along?

She must retrieve it and return to her cell before Achren came back, but truth be told, it was only half her reason for picking her way toward the upper-level dungeons. She intended to satisfy her curiosity about that assistant pig-keeper as well; how very convenient that he and her bauble were both in the same cell.

Why had Achren imprisoned him? What was his interest in the other prisoner? Where had he come from? Perhaps he'd be able to tell her something of the lands beyond the forest. She had never heard of any Caer Dallben, and wondered how far away it was, and whether it was large or small, and if there were any other people her age there.

It took several hours, fumbling along in the darkness, and a long moment of thinking hard, impatient thoughts at a certain door until it stopped pretending to be a wall. But at last she found the tunnel just below the first cells. She paused, examining a mental map of the labyrinthian innards of the castle. Left, then right, then right again…yes, the boy's cell should be just above her. She felt upward gingerly in the darkness and found the cold stone over her head.

Once again the stone molded around her fingers, the paver shifted, then…stopped. _Up,_ she thought, irritated, _up, blast you._ Something was wrong; some weight that wasn't stone, one she had no power over, and she realized the boy must be sitting on it.

"Move away!" she shouted, wondering if he could hear anything through the thick block. The stone still would not budge, but she had a vague sense of something stirring in the cell, and shouted again. "Get off the stone!"

Silence. Confusion emanated from inside the cell, almost palpable. _Idiot_, she thought furiously. Perhaps he really was as stupid as she'd accused him of being. She'd been planning to apologize, and now decided against it. "I _can't_ lift it with you standing on it, you silly assistant pig-keeper!"

A burst of energy brushed at her consciousness and the stone finally lifted and slid to the side. The palest possible square of light opened above her head, and she gratefully drank it in as she leapt up to grab the edges of the floor, kicked at the air, and pulled herself into the cell.

"Who are you?" the boy's voice, loud with panic, assaulted her ears from a few feet away. He was plastered flat against the wall under the grating.

"Who'd you expect?" she hissed in his direction. She couldn't afford to have a guard come running to check on them. "Don't make such a racket. I told you I was coming back." Her foot thumped against something hard on the ground. "Oh, there's my bauble."

She bent to pick it up and sighed at its familiar, friendly weight in her hand.

The boy was panting fearfully from the wall, but it was in a lower, wavering voice that he called out, "Where are you? I can see nothing."

"Is that what's bothering you? Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Her bauble flared in her hand and its golden light burst into every corner, edging each stone in sharp black shadows.

The boy flinched violently and turned his head away, screwing his eyes shut in pain. "What's that?"

She regarded him curiously, as though at some strange, never-before-encountered animal. He was about her height, slim and sturdily built. The bright light revealed him to be in even worse condition than he'd appeared earlier. His shirt was torn beyond repair at neck and hem, and nearly every inch of exposed skin sported a layer of grime and blood. He was rather a gruesome sight, but she was used to that, and he, unlike most she encountered, looked like he might be a pleasant person underneath it all. Even if he _was _hopelessly stupid.

"It's my bauble. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"But…" he opened one eye cautiously, still squinting. "But it lights up!"

He stated the obvious so blatantly that it made her want to laugh. "What did you think it would do? Turn into a bird and fly away?" He looked affronted and she chuckled as she dropped the lit sphere on the floor and took a step toward him.

He shrank away from her fearfully but there was nowhere for him to go; when she reached him she grabbed his shoulder and impatiently pushed him around. He made a muffled sound of protest but then, realizing her intent, fell silent as she tugged at his bindings. His hands were swollen; the ropes had cut into his wrists, and she sucked in her breath angrily. There was no reason for it at all, nothing but pure malice, and the last of her irritation drained from her as pity flooded it out.

"I meant to come back sooner, but Achren caught me talking to you," she explained, feeling a sort of kinship with him for their mutual grief at the queen's hands. "She started to give me a whipping. I bit her," she added grimly, remembering the moment with some satisfaction.

"Then she locked me in one of the cells, deep underground. There are hundreds of them under Spiral Castle, and all sorts of galleries and passages like a honeycomb, all put there by the king who built this castle...ages ago. Most of them connect to each other, and I know how to get through them." She omitted her tenuous connection with the castle itself, assuming it would only confuse him. He was listening silently, an exhilarating experience totally foreign to her. Achren would have told her to hold her tongue long since. "It took me longer, though, in the dark, without my bauble."

She worked the loosened ropes over his hands, noticing with growing respect his bruised knuckles and several scrapes of which he did not complain, even when she could not avoid contact with them. Freed, he pulled his arms to the front with a sigh of relief, and rubbed his discolored wrists. When she stepped back around him he finally looked her full in the face without fear. "Won't Achren know you escaped?"

His voice, when it wasn't panicked, was a nice, homely sound, warm and mid-toned and just the least bit cracked at the end of each utterance. She smiled. "No. She doesn't know I can get through the cells. And she thinks she knows all the passages, but she doesn't. Not by half. Can you imagine Achren in a tunnel? She's not as young as she looks, you know." In point of fact she did not know how old Achren actually was…only that she used some unspeakable methods of magic to maintain her beauty, the exact nature of which the queen kept carefully guarded.

The boy - Taran – blinked, bemused at the irony in her tone, as though laughing at Achren was more than he could yet manage. He brushed a thick cowlick of dark hair out of his eyes with a hand that looked slightly too big for the rest of him, and his gaze darted nervously from her to their surroundings. "Do you _live_ in this terrible place?"

"Well," she retorted, "you don't imagine I'd want to _visit_ here, do you?"

He looked back at her, eyes widening with horror. "Is…is Achren your _mother?_"

Eilonwy stared at him, incensed, and spluttered an exclamation, barely fighting down the urge to slap him for even suggesting such a thing. How could anyone be so dense? Couldn't he see she was _nothing like Achren?_

Feet planted, she threw her head back proudly and stared him down. "I am Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad, daughter of Regat, daughter of…" she paused, noting his blank stare. "Oh, it's such a bother going through all that. My ancestors were the Sea People." No reaction. She tried once more. "I am of the blood of Llyr Half-Speech, the Sea King."

Taran seemed utterly nonplussed, shrugging, and she frowned, unimpressed by his ignorance of what were, according to various books and even Achren's admission, rather important figures in the history of Prydain. "Well, anyway. Achren is my aunt. Or that's what she says. I'm not so sure, myself."

He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and leaned against the wall. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I said I live here," she returned irritably. "It must take a lot of explaining before you understand anything." Her hand crept unconsciously to the crescent pendant dangling from the silver chain at her throat. "I was sent to Achren to learn magic after my parents died. It's a family tradition, you see. The boys are war leaders and the girls are enchantresses."

"But Achren is in league with Arawn of Annuvin!" he burst out. "She's an evil, loathsome creature!"

So he _did _know something. It was common knowledge, but she was relieved to see he wasn't a complete imbecile. "Oh, everyone knows _that_." She shrugged. "I often wish my kin had sent me somewhere else. But I think they must have forgotten about me by now." Truth be told, she had no memory of anything before living with Achren, which must mean she'd been sent there when she was very young, and she often wondered what kind of fools would send a little girl to live with a sorceress whose infamy – as Achren herself proudly acknowledged – was legendary.

She had been staring into space for a moment, reflecting, and came to herself with a start when her eyes refocused on him, noticing the red-stained gash in his left sleeve."Where'd you get _that?_" She grabbed his arm and examined it; beneath the sleeve his upper arm was sliced across - a superficial wound, but inflamed and oozing blood. The straightness of it proclaimed it the work of a blade. "I don't believe you know much about fighting if you let yourself get knocked about and cut up so badly. But I don't imagine assistant pig-keepers are often called on to do that sort of thing."

"I didn't _let_ myself get cut up," Taran protested indignantly, stiffening. "That's Achren's doing, or your aunt's. I don't know which and I don't care. One is no better than the other."

He sounded rather as though he meant to insult her, but her anger was too focused Achren-ward to be distracted. "I _hate_ Achren," she muttered, kneeling down and gathering the tattered hem of her own linen skirt into her hands. "She's mean…" She jerked, and the fabric ripped with a satisfying sound…"and spiteful…" Rip. Riiiiiip. She tried to imagine it was Achren's hair, but Achren's hair was whiter than her garment, which hadn't been white in ages. A long strip separated into her hands, trailing a few threads of the golden embroidery that had once adorned the hem, and she rose and reached for his arm. He flinched back a little - he was as jumpy as a cricket in a frying pan - but she grabbed his wrist determinedly and pinned it under her arm."Of all the people that have ever come here, you're the only one who's the least bit agreeable to talk to, and now she's had you damaged!"

He wrinkled his nose at the process of binding his wound, though whether in pain or at the grimy condition of the bandage she could not tell. "That's not the end of it. She means to kill my friend."

His friend? That fellow in the other cell, then; no wonder he'd been interested. Perhaps that was why he'd come to the castle, to rescue the man in the other dungeon. "If she does that," she informed him, "she'll include you as well. Achren doesn't do things by halves. It would be a...a shame if you were killed. I should..." she faltered, bewildered at her own dismay at the prospect, not knowing exactly how to express something so unfamiliar. "I should be very sorry."

He grabbed her hand suddenly, making her jump. "Eilonwy, listen! If there are tunnels under the castle, can you get to the other cells? Is there a way outside?"

She shrugged, staring at his hand, trying to comprehend the warm tingle that shot up her wrist at the contact. "Of course. If there's a way in, there has to be a way out, doesn't there?"

He let go, pushed past her and paced the cell in agitation; turned to face her, his face tense and determined. "Will you help us? It is important that we be free of this place. Will you show us the passage? My friend and I?"

"Let you escape?" Eilonwy blurted. Oh, blast, why hadn't she thought of it? She clasped her hands and bounced on her toes in subversive delight. "Oh, wouldn't Achren be furious at that! What a wonderful idea; more fun than anything I could think of. Can you imagine her face when she comes down to find you?" An image of that white face, stark with impotent fury, swam invitingly before her mind's eye. "I'd love to see it. Serve her right for whipping me and locking me up."

_"Listen,"_ he said impatiently. "Can you lead me to my companion?"

She considered it. The passage between the two cells, while not long, involved several hairpin turns and one crawl. "That would be very hard. Some of the galleries connect with the ones leading to the cells, but what happens is when you try to cross them, you run into other passages that..."

"Never _mind,_" he interjected, running his fingers through his hair again as though he had a mind to pull it out. "Can I join him in one of the passageways, then?"

Irritation at being interrupted made her scowl at him. "I don't see why you want to do that. It would be so much simpler for me to let you out and then go back for him. You can wait for him out in the woods." His expression said he was about to argue the point, and she cut him off. "Why do you want to complicate things? It'll be bad enough for two people crawling around down there, but imagine three! Suppose you got separated. You couldn't possibly find your way around by yourself."

"Very_ well." _ Taran of Caer Dallben was clearly about to lose his temper. "But free my companion first."

That would require a ridiculous amount of backtracking. Why did he refuse to be sensible? "That's silly," she said bluntly. "I'm here, now, in _your_ cell. Do you want to get out of here or don't you?"

"Of course I do!" He stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "But what if something goes wrong? What if he isn't well enough to move? Then I'll have to think of some means of carrying him, and you couldn't do that by yourself."

"It doesn't matter about me," he insisted, when she opened her mouth to argue. He was silent a moment, his face paling, before muttering, "My life means nothing to anyone. But his mission must not fail." He looked up, straight into her face, and something in the set of his chin told her he was not going to give way. "No. Free him first. You must."

"I _must_ do nothing at all, may I remind you," she huffed at him, but in spite of her irritation a tiny bud of admiration was blooming inside her at his selflessness. It made her soften, albeit ungraciously. "Have it your way. It's still more fun than doing nothing."

He sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully and added, "And there's a white horse, Melyngar...I don't know where they've taken her."

She frowned, tempted to call the whole thing off in return being ordered about like a servant, but settled with snorting at his foolishness. "She'd be in the stable. Isn't that where _you'd_ keep a horse?"

He ignored her tone. "Please, you must get her too. And weapons for us. Can you manage it all?"

"Of course I can." She perched herself at the edge of the hole, and again imagined Achren's face when she found the dungeon empty. It made her giggle aloud. "This is more excitement than I've had in ages." Pocketing her bauble, she leapt lightly to the tunnel below. The stone shifted over her raised hands and rasped slowly back into place and then she was off, spitting into the dirt to get the magic taste out of her mouth.

It was so much easier to move about with light that she was positively cheerful as she navigated the tunnel to the other cell, except the one down which she had to crawl on her knees and elbows - which she would have to do_ twice_, she thought, muttering about the noble ideals of assistant pig-keepers. It was odd...made no sense, really. Why would anyone choose _not_ to be rescued first? Now and then, in her books, she came upon legends of great heroes who had forfeited their own lives in exchange for someone else's, or some equally worthy cause. But she'd never met anyone who'd be willing to _do_ it, and an assistant pig-keeper certainly didn't fit into the same realm as those legendary characters.

He had said his life meant nothing to anyone, she remembered suddenly, with a pang of sympathy. She knew what _that_ was like, but Great Belin, her life meant something to _her_, and she wasn't sure she'd be willing to risk it if she found herself in a situation like his.

He was a strange, fascinating creature, this Taran of Caer Dallben.

* * *

_I have readers...you can't hide; I know you by your stats. Hello Ireland, hello China, hello...Pakistan? Wow. Tell me what you think, even if it's "this sucks." Of course I'd also like to know if you like it. I respond to reviews. I get into conversations with readers. It's called community, folks, and it's awesome. Really. Take a chance. Try it out. _


	4. Misconceptions

**Misconceptions**

The other prisoner's cell was slightly bigger, the moveable stone in its floor fortunately devoid of any feckless individuals sitting on it. It slid open easily and she climbed through the hole into the silence, holding her bauble up before her cautiously.

The boy's companion was sprawled awkwardly on the floor against one wall, as if he'd fallen asleep sitting up and gradually slid down to the stones without awakening. She wondered for a moment if he were already dead, but as she crept closer, the light from her bauble fell upon his closed eyes and he emitted a rumbling snort. Mumbling something that sounded like "gi'me back...me tunin' key", he threw a long, raggedly-clad arm over his face, turned away from the light, and snored loudly.

She giggled and held the bauble high to examine him. What she saw did not impress her: a long, lean scarecrow of a man, dressed in faded, once-colorful garments that seemed to have more patches than original fabric, his gangly legs wrapped in long strips of hide in place of boots. A swatch of pale hair stuck up in wild spikes above his overthrown arm, which rested on his long nose like a log on an andiron. His prominent cleft chin made her think of a blonde hedgehog's hindquarters.

After all Taran's insistence on his companion's importance, she had expected a more imposing personage. This scraggly fellow did not look like he could have a mission more urgent than a bath and a shave.

She started to kneel next to him and then hesitated, a surge of discomfort at such proximity to a grown man running through her. To be sure, he looked nothing like the sort of men she was accustomed to, and he was a friend of Taran, who seemed trustworthy, but...

Achren had never been specific about what it was that made them dangerous. Vague, dire warnings, like bees, buzzed in her mind. _Do not trust them. They are animals. When you are older I will teach you how to control them, but for now, stay away from them._

She frowned, shook her head, but irrational fear welled up into her throat and prickled at the back of her neck. The light of her bauble paled and flickered; in a sudden, uncontrollable moment of shaking panic, she dropped it, plunging the cell into darkness.

She fell to all fours in the straw and felt about frantically for the sphere, panting, torn between the urgency of finding it and the terror of accidentally touching the other occupant of the cell instead. But her fumbling hands finally bumped against something smooth and round, and with a low whimper of relief she clutched it to her chest. Once again the light flared and the shadows fled.

The sleeping man snorted again, stirred restlessly, and groaned. The arm over his face slid away, and he rubbed at his forehead with a bony hand. His eyelids fluttered and she held her breath, backing against the opposite wall.

The movement caught his attention and his eyes flew wide; he gaped, then clumsily struggled up to a sitting position. "Great Belin," he croaked, in a voice that clearly hadn't been used for a while, "who are you?"

"I..."her voice was small; she swallowed, trembling, fighting back the poisonous whisper in her head. "I came to get you out."

He looked at her blankly. "You...I'm sorry, what?"

He looked so like a fish, his eyes and mouth round as river stones, that the very idea of his being dangerous seemed suddenly, utterly absurd. _Lies._ Just more of Achren's lies. After all, her books were full of men who were not at all like animals. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, pushing the fear out before it, so that what came out of her mouth was a rather hysterical gasp. He looked alarmed. "Are...are you all right?"

She covered her mouth with one hand, stifling the giggles that wanted to burst out, and gestured toward the hole in the floor. He glanced at it confusedly, and back at her. "You came out of there?"

She nodded, and gulped, finally managing to speak. "Your friend in the other cell sent me to get you out. Can you walk?"

"My friend?" he repeated stupidly, scratching his head.

_Llyr_, she thought savagely. They were two of a kind. "Yes. Now come on. Don't you _want_ to get out? Because if you'd rather sit there like a stone in the ground, I can just go, and leave you to whatever Achen has in store for you. It won't be pleasant, I can tell you that."

This seemed to shake him back to his senses. "By all means," he said hastily, pushing himself stiffly to his feet and stretching to his full height. "A Fflam knows an opportunity when he sees one, miss. Just let me get this..."

He turned to a corner of the cell, where lay a large weather-worn leather case of an odd shape she had not noticed before. This he picked up and slung onto his back, buckling the straps while she tapped her foot impatiently. "I don't know where this stroke of luck is coming from," he told her, brushing the moldy straw from his jacket, "but I'm very much obliged to you, lass."

Oh, wasn't he polite. Just like the noble characters in her books. A warm flush crept down her face and neck and she smiled at him as she settled herself at the edge of the hole. "It's nothing. I mean, I'm just getting even with Achren, really, and you've no idea how difficult that is."

He rubbed the back of his neck ruefully and rolled his eyes. "Oh...I can imagine. Glad to assist in that effort in any small way, of course." She was lowering herself into the passage below, and he cleared his throat nervously. "I, uh...have to go that way, do I?"

"It'll be a bit of a squeeze for you," she admitted, "but I'll go first with the light. Stay close behind me and you'll be all right." She dropped to the ground and held her bauble up to the ceiling. His long legs appeared, dangling through the hole like a spider's from its silk, and she swallowed more giggles as they waved around, searching for a foothold. "That won't work," she called up. "You have to let yourself drop through. It's only just beneath you."

"Oh, well..." his voice puffed from above. He dropped suddenly, with a yelp, stumbling to his rear when his feet couldn't quite navigate the landing. "_Oof!_ Well." He looked around at the earthen walls of the tunnel. "Not exactly comfortable accommodations, but it's a welcome change of scenery after that cell."

She was busy replacing the stone; listened for the _crunch_ of the settling slab and turned to see him staring at her with wary discomfort. "How, um," he muttered, "how did...never mind. Who did you say you were?"

"Eilonwy," she answered briskly. "And that-" she pointed up, where the noise of footsteps was a muffled thump above their heads, "-is the change of guard. If they find you gone now they'll raise the alarm and make it much harder for you to get away, so if you haven't broken something, I wish you'd get up."

He appeared to need no further motivation, and scrambled to his feet. "Lead on, lass! A Fflam is eager. To be gone from here, that is. I must say this place has been my poorest welcome yet."

She snorted as she led him down the tunnel. "People don't get welcomed here unless Achren asks for them herself. And even then you should be careful. Didn't you know that? Whatever brought you here to begin with?"

"Ah." His voice was slightly breathless as he trotted to keep up with her. "Well, it's what I do, you see, wander. I had no way of knowing who lived here or I'd have kept my distance."

"It sounds very careless to visit places when you don't know who they belong to," she observed, crouching beneath a low passage. Behind her she heard him grunt.

"Great Belin, these low ceilings are a menace! What was that? Oh yes, visiting...well, I'm not always welcomed enthusiastically, I'll admit. But you'd be surprised how many decent folks there are."

"I've never met any," she declared, then added thoughtfully, "until today." She paused as the passage opened onto a gallery whose far wall displayed a confusing array of low doorways. More, in fact, than should be there. _Stop it_.

"I don't suppose you have, living here," he puffed, stopping next to her and stretching his lower back with a groan. He surveyed the doorways doubtfully. "You _do_ know your way, don't you?"

"_Yes_," she declared, more to the castle than to him, and at once found the opening she needed. "Come on...I forgot to ask _your_ name."

"Fflewddur Fflam, at your service, my dear. Are there any more of those...ah...very low passages?"

"It's all low from here on out," she said, casting an amused look over her shoulder at his hangdog expression. "But it isn't much farther."

She ducked her head and bent at the waist as the tunnel shrank, and heard him behind her, puffing and blowing. "Slow down, can't you, child? I'm afraid I shall have to crawl." There was no room to turn her head to see him, but she could hear him scraping against the edges of the tunnel. "Beastly place. A mole couldn't have done better," he muttered. "Who dug all these ridiculous warrens? And how does the castle stand on top without it all collapsing?

"They were dug by the king who built it," she explained, "or so the legends go. As for how it stands on them..." she thought, puzzled, about the massive, incomprehensible weight of ancient stone above their heads, precariously perched over the fragile honeycomb of earthen mazes underground. By all logic it should _not_ be standing at all, and she wondered why that fact had never occurred to her. "I have no idea, actually."

She heard the word "unnatural" muttered in a condemnatory tone, and then he lapsed into silence but for the noise of his exertions.

A final squeeze through the tightest portion of the tunnel brought them to the outside of the castle, on the backside of a boulder half-obscured by trees. She was a bit surprised, upon emerging, to see the sky fully dark, bearing a hazy half-moon behind banks of shredded cloud. She'd been too excited about her mission to notice the passage of time.

Fflewddur Fflam, who had squeezed through the last few feet of the tunnel with nary an inch to spare, poked his spiky head out behind her and, grunting, pulled his long limbs one-by-one out of the opening. "Great Belin," he grumbled hoarsely. "It's like being born again. I'm glad I can't remember the first time."

"Hush," she ordered. Though the front gates were on the other side of the castle, there was always the chance of a sentry on the rear walls. "Follow me to the trees. You'll be safe once you're out of sight of the towers."

He complied, and they quickly made their way to the darkness under the forest canopy. Fflewddur leaned against a tree with a sigh of relief. "Ahhh, smell that air. I don't mind telling you, I don't care if I don't see the inside of a castle wall for a month."

She sniffed appreciatively at the air. "It _is_ nice. Like a drink of cold water when you've been thirsty a long time." She watched him enviously as he shook the dirt out of his tattered cloak and swept it about his shoulders. He had an air of _belonging_, out here amidst the trees - and of course he would, she thought, remembering his words about wandering. She wondered what it was like to sleep outside, with the leaves whispering overhead and the sweet, free air all around. Her own casement was shut every night to keep out whatever might be flying about outside - you never knew, at Spiral Castle, what that might be. Her bed was hung with heavy drapes that closed around her like dark walls, a necessary evil that kept her from watching the silent shadows and flickering pale lights that roamed through her room at night on businesses of their own; moreover the curtains muffled further the dim, indecipherable sounds that occasionally emanated from Achren's adjoining chamber. There were certain spells that could only be performed at night, in specific phases of the moon, and all of them - in her experience - sounded horrible.

Fflewddur brought her back to herself by clearing his throat. "Well...once again, I thank you. Eilonwy, is it?" He bowed to her with surprising grace. "I'm afraid I can't do much to return the favor, but if you're ever in-"

"Wait," she interrupted in dismay, seeing that he was about to make some sort of farewell. How could he? Disappointment in him made her spirit sink like a stone tossed into a well, and what splashed up was anger. "You can't leave yet! I've got to get your horse, and then go back for Taran."

His mouth opened in confusion but she cut him off. "It's a fine thing, I must say. He put you first, insisted I rescue you before him, and here you are about to go off and leave him. It's like kicking your dog."

"But I don't - " he began weakly.

"NO," She said, fuming, and turned to leave. "You wait right here. I'll be back in a moment."

She left him still stammering, and headed back to the castle.


	5. New Plan

**New Plan**

The stablehands were nowhere to be seen...drunk in the cellars, if experience was anything to go by.

There were only a handful of horses kept at Spiral Castle; Achren did not enjoy riding and did not often travel far enough to need her own mount, so most of the beasts were of the sturdy, reliable type used for packing. Eilonwy was not fond of them; they were an ill-tempered collection of nags, sour from hard use and no affection. Right now they were all studiously facing away from the pen at the end of the rows, their ears flattened back against their heads as they pretended to ignore the indignant squeals of the creature shut in there.

Eilonwy crept down the center row, flicking the nose of one old gelding who snapped at her as she passed. The restless drum of hoofs scraping wood filled the stable, interspersed with the snorting of their owner. A large white head appeared over the doorway of the last pen, rolled its eyes, whinnied angrily, and then disappeared again.

She held her breath as she approached. The horse was aware of her; it backed to the opposite wall, tossed its head, and glared at her, blowing noisily through flared nostrils.

She rested her chin on the edge of the door, marveling at the magnificent animal. She'd never seen such a beast, except recorded in silk thread on tapestries that hung inside the castle. It was large and powerfully built, but sleek, with a fine-boned broad forehead that sloped to a delicately-formed muzzle, and an arched, elegant neck crowned with a pale gold mane. It held its long sweeping tail high like a banner and pawed the ground nervously with a slim, muscled leg.

"You must be Melyngar." The pointed ears pricked in her direction. "You're much too beautiful for this place," Eilonwy observed. "Like a rainbow down a rat-hole. I've come to get you out, but you'll have to stop that racket." She pushed a hand through the bars of the door slowly. "Shall we be friends?"

Melyngar bobbed her head and blew loudly, then froze like a statue for several long moments, the heaving of her round ribcage the only sign of life. Eilonwy, waiting likewise still, felt the horse's tension like a weight, a beam delicately balanced, about to be tipped.

_"Please,"_ she breathed, in a whisper. There was a movement, a brush as of a silk strand sliding across her mind. Melyngar whickered softly and took a step, stretching her neck across the empty space toward the girl's outstretched hand. Velvet nostrils puckered warmly in her palm, tickling. Eilonwy let her breath out slowly.

"That's better. You're certainly more sensible than that assistant pig-keeper." The horse whickered again as she unbolted the stable door and slid inside. Melyngar took another step and pushed her nose into the girl's chest; she ran her hand up the smooth-furred nasal ridge of the big head gently. Oh, _why_ couldn't they have horses like _this?_

The white flanks were streaked with mud and rust-colored stains. Eilonwy frowned at them. "You've had a difficult day." She collected saddle and bridle from the disrespectful heap in the corner they'd been left in, and Melyngar stood still and docile while she fastened them awkwardly. The horse's ears flicked back in mild reproach at her clumsy handling of the bit in the soft mouth, and Eilonwy sighed apologetically. "I suppose you can tell I've not done much of this. But I hope you'll forgive it."

The saddlebags had been rifled through but still appeared to contain some provisions of the type travelers carried. It would have to do; the kitchen would be too busy at this hour to make theft possible. Silently she gathered up Melyngar's reins and led her out of the pen and through the rear door of the stable.

There were two guards at the front gate, and though she knew the goose-down, iron-edged words that would allow her to slip by them while they stared at the stones underfoot, she wasn't sure whether the protection afforded would be enough for the horse as well. Better to use the back gate, which could be unbolted silently from within, and whose single guard was usually asleep. She held her breath at the noise of the iron-shod hoofs on cobblestone, but in moments she and the horse were safely outside the wall, close to where she had left that Fflam fellow.

She was still annoyed with him. He had seemed so agreeable, the first man she'd ever laid eyes on whose gaze didn't make her want to shrink small into some dark corner, so well-mannered and pleasant...and then to go and try to abandon the friend who'd stayed behind for his sake! Perhaps Achren was right after all. Perhaps you really couldn't trust any of them no matter how nice they seemed. But in any case she wouldn't let it happen if she could help it. If he'd gone off through the woods while she was getting the horse, she'd track him down and let him know exactly what she thought of him. Well, after retrieving Taran, that is.

Llyr, but the whole business was getting complicated. She was beginning to wonder if she'd be able to get back to her cell before Achren came for her, and although the thought of Achren's face at finding her cell empty had its attractions, she was not eager for her methods of moving about the castle to be discovered. It would leave no doubt as to who had carried out the escape of prisoners under Achren's very nose, for one thing. No, she must be quick in getting Taran out, and then be back inside her cell as soon as possible. No time to waste. The thought made her break into a run as she neared the woods, Melyngar trotting beside her.

Fflewddur Fflam was still there, sitting against a tree wrapped in his cloak. He rose as she approached, gaping at the horse as though he'd never seen one before; she ignored his dumbfounded expression and pressed the reins into his hand. "Now," she panted. "I'm just going back for Taran, and I shall be as quick as I can. It won't be much longer, and then you can all be on your way. Whatever way that is." Giving him no chance to reply, she spun, and ran back up the slope to the patch of scrubby trees that hid the tunnel mouth.

The tense, prickly sensation that had hung over the place all day now felt positively _thick_; she almost felt a need to push the air out of the way as she slid back into the bowels of the castle. It was expectant, waiting, and played no tricks this time, but she felt eerily as though there were eyes watching from every shadow, a will somewhere beyond the stone that knew, somehow, what the small beings scuttling about like ants in its innards were up to.

It made her feel intensely discontent all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the realization that once she released Taran the whole adventure would be over, and tomorrow would be life as usual, back to books and magic lessons and monotony; back to navigating the malicious shadows and pressing watchfulness that made up her world. And Achren, always Achren - relentlessly criticizing, commanding, threatening, depriving, punishing until Eilonwy thought she would go mad, possessed with an overwhelming desire to _destroy, stop, just stop her_, or at least to mar that flawless face, rend it beyond recognition. She had, with every ounce of her strength, hurled sharp or heavy objects at the queen more than once in a rage, but Achren always flicked them out of their trajectory with a graceful motion of her slim, sinuous hand, a mocking smile on her face as though it was barely worth the effort. She almost seemed to enjoy it - though that never stopped her from administering chastisement afterward.

Oh, how she hated Achren. Hated her with every breath and every heartbeat. Somehow it was worse, now - after only a scarce few minutes speaking to two strangers who didn't frighten her, who seemed glad, if shocked, to meet her and spoke to her kindly - well, mostly. Now that she knew such people existed, how could she go back to Achren's wretched company with no hope of ever seeing them again?

She wished she could trade places with the assistant pig-keeper and his friend. Whatever his mission was, wherever he and that Fflewddur were going, it had to be better than living with Achren. Perhaps...

She froze as the thought struck her in a heart-stopping, breathless moment, holding herself up with a hand on each side of the tunnel.

_Perhaps she could go with them. _

She had often dreamed of running away. But it had never been more than a dream, a mad fancy that she could escape with a passing rover camp or run off and live in a hollow tree eating roots and berries until Achren tired of looking for her. Even after she had outgrown Achren's livid tales of the horrible creatures that roamed the woods and devoured children, she was too aware of the size of the forest and of her own ignorance of surviving in it to make a serious attempt. If she had any clear idea of the best direction to travel she would risk it, but as it was she'd wander aimlessly, and even carefully rationed provisions would not last forever. Living here was terrible but at least it was_ living_, not starving to death lost and cold in the woods.

But Fflewddur Fflam said he wandered. He must know how to forage and make his own shelter, and at the very least would know the lay of the land, and perhaps the nearest place where decent people lived, who might be willing to take her on. She had no useful skills but magic, but...well, she could worry later about how to support herself. The main thing was getting out of the castle and through the woods in safety. And though the boy and his lanky companion seemed like a bumbling pair of fools, they did have a horse at least, and she might never get a better chance.

Her heart was hammering as she began moving again, excitement building in her like a fire, then realized she was at the crawling portion of the tunnel again. She threw herself down with a grunt. No matter. If she had her way she'd never have to do this again, _ever._ It was an ecstatic thought.

_Suppose they refused. _She sniffed at the thought. They couldn't refuse; not after she'd gone to all this trouble. She was saving their lives, and that counted for a great deal. They could argue if they wanted, but nobody could stop her.

_Farewell, Spiral Castle_, she thought gleefully, elbowing her way through the tunnel.

_And farewell, Achren_.


	6. Delays

**Delays**

There was another rumble of heavy feet as Eilonwy neared Taran's cell for the last time and she paused to listen, concerned. The guard should not be changing again so soon. Something was amiss - perhaps Achren had found her cell empty, or Fflewddur's...in which case the next logical cell to check would be the one above her head. There was no time to lose.

Fortunately Taran required very little prodding to get a move on, and in a few moments the stone had slid into place for the last time over their heads. He crouched next to her, looking uncomfortable in the cramped space.

"This way." She turned and led him briskly into the darkness, her heart racing giddily. Every slap of her foot on the earthen floor echoed with finality in her ears_. Last steps...last time through these wretched tunnels...last few breaths of this stale air. _A few moments more, and she would be free.

Passing several openings on either side, she sensed Taran slowing to glance around and called back, "Be sure you follow me. Don't go into any of those. Some of them branch off and some don't go anywhere at all. You'd get lost, and that would be a useless thing when you're trying to escape." _Along with slowing us down considerably_, she added silently to herself, not pleased at the thought of having to go back and find him if he strayed.

She heard his steps quicken their pace and picked up her own, spurred along by her eagerness to leave the castle, barely registering his labored breath as he struggled to keep up with her. Pebbles rattled from somewhere behind them and a there was a rumble of heavy feet above. She paused, holding her light up to illuminate the ceiling. It was trembling as the rumble continued, and tiny crumbs of earth rolled down the walls. Taran came up, panting, behind her.

"We're just below the guardroom," she whispered to him. "Something's happening up there. Achren doesn't usually turn out the guard in the middle of the night."

He looked up anxiously, pale and perspiring. "They must have gone to the cells and found us gone. There was a lot of commotion just before you came." He rubbed his hand across his damp forehead, and she smothered a laugh at the streak of grime it left behind.

"You must be a very important Assistant Pig-Keeper," she observed, amused. "Achren wouldn't go to so much trouble unless..."

He shot her an annoyed look and edged further down the tunnel. "Hurry! If she puts a guard around the castle we'll never get out."

She pursed her mouth in irritation as she pushed past him. "I wish you'd stop worrying. You sound like you're having your toes twisted. Achren can set out all the guards she wants. She doesn't know where the mouth of the tunnel is, and it's hidden so well an owl couldn't see it. You don't think I'd march you out the front gate, do you?"

In truth, she was concerned, and his additional anxiety was making her all the more nervous. Getting out the castle was only half the task, after all. A complete getaway would be far more difficult if Achren began sending search parties into the woods. Perhaps she would even employ the hounds.

Sensing her escape slipping away, Eilonwy doubled her pace, sliding around the familiar curves and twists of the tunnel carelessly, in her urgency giving no notice to Taran's puffing growing fainter behind her. But presently he gave a yelp, and then, to her alarm, there was a tremendous roar - the unmistakable sound of loose, falling earth and scattering pebbles. In an instant she was scrambling back toward the sound, visions of him broken and buried under a merciless mountain of stones clawing at her mind.

Heart in her throat, she rounded a corner and saw nothing but clouds of swirling dust, but heard him faintly calling her name, and fell into a crouch, her knees weak with relief. Burying her face in her skirt to keep out the dust, she took several deep breaths to steady her nerves before looking up again, and raised her bauble as high as she could, searching for him. "Yes, I'm here! Where are you?"

His voice came, distantly, from somewhere below, and she flopped onto her belly and slid toward the dark space where it seemed loudest. The dust was settling, but what it revealed only made her heart sink. "Wait...I see. Part of the tunnel's given way. You must have slipped into a crevice."

"It's not a crevice," he called up, his voice echoing strangely as though off a cavernous interior. "I've fallen all the way down into something and it's deep. Can't you put the light into it? I've got to get up again."

She held her bauble out before her and crept forward, sliding over a shelf of rock that felt sturdy, until she came to an edge where the darkness yawned under her nose. The golden light bounced off the wall opposite, but there was no floor. "Well, you have got yourself into a mess. The ground's all broken through here, and below there's a big stone like a shelf over your head. How _did_ you ever manage to do that?"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" He sounded affronted.

She felt the castle shifting restlessly around her and frowned. This was _not_ the time for its tricks. She wondered if it would prevent her leaving if it could...she'd just bet it would, come to think of it, but it wouldn't do to let the boy know this was even a possibility.

"I've never seen this before," she said carefully. "All that tramping about above must have jarred something loose. I don't think these tunnels are half as solid as they look, or the castle, either." Fflewddur's question about how it all held together had been quite sensible, really. "Achren's always complaining about things leaking and doors not closing right."

"Do stop that prattling!" Taran's voice was an indignant blurt. "I don't want to hear about leaks and doors! Show me a light so I can climb out of here!"

Eilonwy sighed, chafing at the delay. "That's the trouble; I'm not quite sure you can. You see, that stone shelf juts out so far and goes down so steeply. Can you manage to reach it?"

She heard scuffling for a few moments and then a despairing groan. "Go on without me. Warn my companion the castle is alerted..."

Oh, for goodness sake. Really, there should be a limit to one's selflessness. "And what do you intend to do? You can't just sit there like a fly in a jug. That isn't going to help matters at all."

"It doesn't make any difference about me," he said. _That again._ "You can find a rope and come back when things are safe..."

_Not likely_, she thought. With freedom so close she could taste it, she had no intention of entering this place again once she left. "Who knows when that will be? If Achren sees me there's no telling what might happen. Suppose I couldn't get back? You'd turn into a skeleton while you were waiting - I don't know how long that takes, though I imagine it would need some time - and you'd be worse off than before."

There was a despairing silence, then..."What else am I to do?" His voice was thick; his misery swept like a wave on her consciousness. In spite of her annoyance her heart twisted in sympathy.

"That's very noble of you," she called, "but I don't think it's really necessary - not yet, at any rate. If the guards come out and start beating the woods, I hardly think your friend would stay around waiting. He'd go hide and come back for you later, I should imagine." She hesitated, remembering Fflewddur's hapless stammering as she'd left him. "Unless he's an assistant pig-keeper, too, in which case I can't guess how his mind would work."

"He's not an assistant pig-keeper," came the weary retort. "He's...well, it's none of your business what he is."

She snorted dismissively. "That wasn't very polite. Well, nevertheless, the main thing is to get you out."

"It's impossible." His voice was almost a howl. "I'm caught here, locked up better than Achren ever planned."

She had no patience for such dramatics. "Don't say that; it doesn't help." Rope, rope, what she wouldn't give for _rope!_ Surely there was something..."I could tear up my robe and plait it into a cord - though I'll tell you now I wouldn't enjoy crawling around tunnels without any clothes on." The miserable silence below took on a definite sensation of horror, and she dismissed the idea. "I don't think it would be long enough or strong enough, though. I could cut off my hair and add it in, if I had a pair of shears." She held a tangled red-gold handful of it out at arm's length appraisingly. It was several feet long, but..."No, that still wouldn't do."

His restlessness was pulsing up to her and she cut him off before he could speak. "Can't you _please_ be quiet and let me think?" If only she could see where he was! "Here, wait, I'm going to drop my bauble down to you. Catch!"

She tossed the golden ball over the edge of the stone shelf. The darkness closed upon her like a black curtain, but she kept her eye on the warm light glinting on the walls below. "Now then, what's down there? Is it just a pit of some kind?"

He was silent for a moment, but she sensed surprise, and when his voice echoed up it was brighter. "It's not a hole at all! It's a kind of chamber, and there's a tunnel here, too. "

That settled it. There was no way to get him out, and she could not, in good conscience, go on without him; meanwhile the guards were alerted and the castle was as tense as a drawn bowstring. Something was _going to happen_; perhaps was already happening, and there was no time to spend dithering about. Another tunnel meant another route, almost certainly. Before he had finished speaking, she was sliding her feet out in front of her and pushing herself over the ledge.

It was a fair drop, but she'd prepared for it, and landed squarely, pebbles rattling around her. Taran, who'd gone a few steps down the tunnel, whirled around at the sound. His face paled with shock, then reddened in dismayed fury. "What did you...why did...you addlepated fool!"

_Belin_, she thought, as he railed on, called her sanity into question, and gave them both up for lost. This boy was second only to Achren in overreacting to things. Unlike Achren, however, he was rather amusing in his outbursts, perhaps because they weren't accompanied by surges of dark magic or the threat of that leather strap. At any rate she had rather anticipated this one, and waited quietly until he'd run out of breath.

"Now, if you've quite finished, let me explain something very simple." She pointed down the tunnel. "That has to go _some_place, and chances are it will be better than where we are now."

He took a deep breath and pressed his palms to his eyes. "I...I'm sorry. I oughtn't to have called you names. But there was no reason to put yourself in danger."

A sweet thing to say...she felt a glimmering of warm affection toward him and tamped it back down ruthlessly. After all, that Fflam had been similarly polite and look how _he'd_ turned out.

"There you go again." She took her bauble from him and stepped resolutely toward the new tunnel. "I promised to help you escape and that's what I'm doing." _And unlike some people, I don't abandon my companions,_ she added silently. "Besides, I know this castle and how it works. I shouldn't be surprised if this tunnel followed the same direction as the one above, and it doesn't have half as many galleries coming off it." Eilonwy glanced around at the walls and ceiling; unlike the burrows above, these were carefully squared-off and lined with stone, the roof supported on great pillars. If you didn't know you were underground, you could almost mistake it for just another corridor in the castle. "It's certainly more comfortable."

They moved along at a better pace now, as the way was broad and tall, allowing them to walk upright and side-by-side - a situation she found novel. She couldn't remember ever walking _with_ anyone; Achren was always either forcibly dragging her or making her walk in front, "to stay out of trouble" when they were obliged to go anywhere together. It was strange, oddly unnerving to have someone at your left shoulder - rather like being in a boat unevenly weighted on one side. She felt a mild urge to throw her other arm out to balance the empty space on her right.

"How did you learn your way through all these tunnels, anyway?" he asked presently, and she almost startled at the echo of his voice off the stone walls, after the muffling effect of the earthen tunnels above.

Bitter amusement pulled at her mouth. "I've had rather a lot of time to myself. It's not the first time I've been locked in the dungeons. Achren sometimes forgets about me for days at a time."

"I thought she was teaching you magic."

"She is." A gallery opened to their left; Eilonwy glanced at it briefly, felt no inward tug, and continued on without slowing. "But the weather's more predictable than Achren. You never know if she's going to be a thunderstorm or a blizzard."

Taran shuddered, but his voice took on the trace of humor she'd heard before. "I don't suppose she's ever peaceful and summery."

This surprised a real laugh out of her and she glanced at him in pleased astonishment. "No indeed." She wondered what, exactly, his interaction with Achren had been. "Anyway, some days she makes me practice dawn to dusk. Other days she can't be bothered, or stays locked in her chamber for hours and hours. She's very busy with a lot of other things, you know, though I don't often know what they are. There are always nasty-looking people coming and going on missions of hers."

"Haven't you ever thought of running away?" he asked, and she turned a startled glare upon him, almost running into a pillar. She had not yet informed him of her intentions, feeling it would perhaps be wiser to save that revelation for once they were outside the castle.

He looked bemused at her expression. "I mean...you don't seem to belong here, really."

She chewed her upper lip as she got her balance back, and continued a few paces before muttering, "I've thought of it. Just never had the chance. I wouldn't know where to go. It's not as though there's another castle just over the next hill."

Taran slowed as they passed another gallery, and she turned a little in his direction to lead him on. "There's no sense branching off yet. Best way to get lost. We'll go straight to the end of this one; there's bound to be something there."

His face was troubled as he glanced down yet another passageway, dragging his heels. "We shouldn't have come this far."

She rolled her eyes and pressed on. "Excuse me. I forgot which one of us has spent more time down here."

"You haven't spent time in _this_ tunnel," he argued. "You don't know how long it goes on. We might go on tramping for days. And isn't it supposed to bring us out above ground? It just keeps going down deeper and deeper."

She grit her teeth, ignoring him, trying to sort out the sensations she was picking up from somewhere nearby. Somehow that strange, niggling sense of the castle being _alive_ was stronger than ever, as though they were nearing its heart, the potent source of the will that ran, like streaks of marble, through every stone. Close, very close - so close that her sense of direction was muddled, like a compass held too near to a lodestone.

They rounded a corner and came to an abrupt stop at a wall of boulders that completely blocked the tunnel. She stared at it blankly in confusion, and Taran gave a cry of dismay. "I knew it! We've gone to the end of your precious tunnel that you know so much about, and this is what we find. Now we can only go back; we've lost all our time and we're no better off."

She barely heard him; her mind was racing ahead, probing at the stones; she reached out and ran her fingers along the joints, waiting for the buzzing tingle that identified one that would move at her command. "I can't understand," she said aloud to delay Taran, who was already moving impatiently backwards, "why anyone would go to the trouble of building a tunnel like this and not have it go any place. Someone dug it and set all the rocks and it must have been a terrible amount of work. Why would anyone...?"

"I don't know!" Taran burst out. "I wish you'd stop wondering about things that can't make any difference to us. I'm going back. I don't know how I'm going to climb that shelf, but I can certainly do it a lot more easily than digging through a wall."

The wall was solid, she realized, irritated. _Not this, not now, you...you blasted pile of rocks._ There had to be some other way. There was _always_ some other way, if she could just get the place to cooperate, and it was _not_ cooperating at the moment. A strong sense of ambivalence weighed heavy on her, as though the castle itself were divided, and anything she did or said might push it in either direction.

Perhaps best, then, to treat it lightly. "Well," she said, affecting nonchalance, "it is very strange and all. I'm sure I don't know where we are."

"I knew we'd end up being lost," Taran growled. He was almost out of sight beyond the ring of light. "I could have told you that."

_Which way? Show me which way. Please_. "I didn't say I was lost," she said cautiously, stepping carefully away from the wall, testing the feel of the tunnel like a dowser searching for water. "I only said I didn't know where I was, and there's a difference. When you're lost, you really don't know where you are. When you just don't happen to know where you are at the moment, that's something else. I know I'm underneath Spiral Castle, and that's quite good for a start."

"You're splitting hairs. Lost is lost. You're as bad as Dallben."

_There!_ There it was...a threadlike pull, a tug at her consciousness, just a few paces back and to the left of where Taran was standing. "Who is Dallben?" she asked absently, moving toward him slowly so as not to lose the sensation.

"Dallben is my-oh, never mind!" Seeing her follow with the light, he turned and made his way back up the tunnel.

"We could have a look into that first side passageway," she called out, as much to the castle as to him. _That's the one, isn't it. No tricks from you, now._

Taran had slowed and peered into the opening. Coming up behind him, she held up the light to look over his shoulder. This tunnel was still paved, but it was narrow, and the stones were rougher and more hastily set. A breath of slightly less stale air brushed her face. "Go ahead, let's try this one."

"Hush," he whispered, straining his head forward and tucking his hair behind his ears. She pulled her attention away from her inward sense and listened; there were faint sounds, like the rustling of furtive animals, from far down the tunnel. "There's something..."

"Well, by all means let's find out what." She prodded him impatiently. He threw her an annoyed backwards glance and cautiously crept forward.

Gooseflesh was erupting on her arms and prickling over the back of her neck as they slipped further down; she felt her breath quicken with excitement mingled of fear and curiosity. She had no idea what was at the end of this passage, but she knew without a doubt it was something important, something powerful, something positively stiff with magic. It was drawing her in; the familiar web-like feel of sorcery was looping over her fingers and forearms and tugging her inexorably forward even as her skin crawled under it and her face stretched into a grimace at the repellant taste and smell.

The rustling grew louder, and other sounds joined it; low gibberings, high thin screeching and wailings that recalled Achren's horror stories about the cyoeraeth. She shuddered, and when Taran stopped for a moment and mopped his face with a handful of his shirt she saw his hands were shaking. He looked back and held his arm up protectively, barring her way. "Give me the light," he ordered, "and wait for me here."

Alone in the darkness with that sound? Not a chance. "Do you think it's ghosts?" she whispered. "I don't have any beans to spit at them, and that's about the only thing that will really do for a ghost." She shut her eyes, feeling about, but she sensed nothing that indicated dark magic; only ancient power, long undisturbed. "You know, I don't think it's ghosts at all. I've never heard one, and I suppose they could sound like that if they wanted to, but I don't see why they should bother. I think it's just the wind."

Taran shook his head incredulously. "Wind? How could there be...?" He stopped, as a cold current of air suddenly threaded past them, lifting strands of hair from his damp forehead. "Wait a minute. You may be right. There might be an opening." He took a breath and strode on, holding the light over his head, and she followed at his heels.

The tunnel ended in another wall of rock, but this one was pierced by a narrow crack, through which the cold current slid like an undulating rope of ice. Taran swallowed hard and wedged himself into the opening.

She followed him, heart pounding.


	7. Freedom

The force of raw magic that hit her the moment they emerged from the gap almost pushed her against the wall; a throbbing ephemeral net of invisible light that swathed around her in recognition; not dark, not evil, but frighteningly strong and penetrating. Eilonwy struggled against its sinuous grip, feeling its attempt to wind its way into her very breath patterns and heart rhythm; shook her head and gasped deliberately against its beat. _No. No. I am my own. Not yours. _

The probing subsided, but the magic still clung to her like a choking vine to its tree, so tangible that she glanced at Taran in wonder; how could he not _feel_ it? He was gazing around at their surroundings, awestruck and anxious, but gave no indication that he sensed anything other than what his eyes and ears told him. Almost she envied him for it.

The chamber was not large, but it was cluttered; the floor was littered with the skeletal remnants of a dozen or so armored men encircling a central stone dais. Baskets and jars lined the walls; the golden light glittered upon their contents like a handful of stars strewn upon the floor. Weapons and armor were scattered about and piled in heaps. "I'm sure Achren hasn't any idea all this is here," Eilonwy whispered to Taran, who was bending over one of the corpses. "She'd have hauled it out long ago; she loves jewelry, though it doesn't become her one bit." She picked up a brooch from the floor at her feet to examine it; a lovely thing, wrought in silver knots around a single blood-red jewel, but it tingled warningly in her hand and she dropped it, grimacing. _Cursed._ Thank the fates Achren didn't know about this place. She was bad enough without being hung all about with cursed enchanted jewelry.

"Surely it is the barrow of the king who built this castle," Taran said reverently. They both turned their gazes to the stone slab in the center, and picked their way through the fallen warriors for a closer look.

She barely noticed the crowned skull that grinned at them from the richly-clothed figure; the magic around her swirled and concentrated in a viscous funnel, sucking her gaze to the sword clutched in the bony hands. For a moment, it was the only thing she saw, etched in her mind like the blinding ghost image of a lightning bolt against her closed eyes. In an instant of breathless, startling familiarity she knew. _This_.

_This was the heart of Spiral Castle_.

_This_ was the will that she felt in the stone, the almost-voice in the silence, the grudging sympathy that bent itself around her, unpredictable, sometimes capricious, but never malicious; or, at least, she now realized, never with a malice directed against _her_. This...thing, this enormous mass of power made small and trapped in the shape of a sword; she could feel it chafing at its own inactivity, burdened by its boundaries. It had been made for more than this.

It held her mind captive, singular of purpose. _Freedom. _

Taran had already left the dais; she was dimly aware that he had despoiled one of the fallen warriors; heard him shout triumphantly that he'd found a passage. Her hand closed, almost unconsciously, on the jeweled hilt, and a jolt of power, hot and prickly, surged up her arm like quicksilver and swept her from head to toe. _Freedom. For both of us._

The clawed hands of the ancient king crumbled away as she jerked the scabbard free, and in her mind the magic sang with fierce, ecstatic joy.

The sword shook in her hands as she stumbled away from the slab in a daze; to her right, Taran's legs were disappearing into a low crack in the stone wall. She threw herself after him with a sensation that she was breaking through a barrier; the web of light in her mind's eye shivered and cracked, bursting into a million sparkling fragments and something huge, something _massive_, shifted and quaked; she felt it both in her inmost being and in the sudden tremor of the earth around her.

The passage was a crawl and she clawed her way forward blindly, gasping as the ground shook. The earth rumbled. In terror she realized the tunnel was collapsing, and shrieked as the ceiling in front of her gave way in a rush.

All at once the world turned to a agonized chaos of falling stones and earth, thunderous noise and movement that went on and on. She was tumbled about like the seeds in a gourd-rattle for what seemed like a very long time, but finally the ground became solid under her and she stared confusedly at a line of trees illuminated in a ghastly blue light. It briefly turned to a flash of blinding white as lightning streaked across the sky. She attempted to get to her feet, realized she was pinned from the chest down in the rubble of the collapsed tunnel, and shrieked for Taran.

She feared he'd also been buried, but to her great relief he came running, stumbling over the heaving ground, his face ghostly white in the eerie light, his eyes fixed, horrified, on the rumbling castle behind her. She couldn't see what he was staring at, but it must be something horrendous.

"I'm stuck!" she gasped, as he bent and clawed at the stones around her. "I'm all tangled up with the sword. The scabbard's caught on something."

He puffed as he heaved at the heavy rocks. "What sword?"

"_You_ took one," she panted. "I thought I might as well, too. Need weapons, don't you?"

The loosened earth began to crumble around her; Taran seized her under the arms and pulled and she clutched at him, kicking furiously. All at once her prison gave way and they both toppled down a rocky slope, landing in a tangled, bruised heap. "Oof!" Eilonwy pushed herself up breathlessly and groaned. "I feel like all my bones were taken apart and put back together wrong."

He ignored this, pointing back up the slope. "Look!" Finally able to turn and see what was happening to the castle, she did so, and what she saw made her heart stand still.

The towers swayed like trees in a high wind, wreathed in blue flame. The great outer walls were splitting like firewood beneath some invisible axe, massive stones tossed into the air like chips. The noise was deafening, worse than a hundred thunderstorms all battling at once, and she covered her ears with her hands and crouched next to Taran, both of them frozen with horror, unable even to stand as the earth rippled like ocean waves around them. With a final roar that must have been heard for a hundred leagues, Spiral Castle collapsed from the very foundations. A wave of dust and smoke boiled up from its ruin, blasting both of them, and they dropped to the ground, huddled together and hiding their faces, until the air stilled.

The silence that fell was complete, broken only by their breathing as they waited, afraid to move, afraid to look. The dust settled slowly, glazing them with gritty film. Eilonwy, cramped and too warm, became suddenly aware that in the castle's last violence Taran had crouched over her, shielding her from the blast, and his arms were still curled protectively around her back. She examined the sensation in some bewilderment. She felt...well, not uncomfortable exactly, but...

She squirmed, and he released her immediately, falling back onto his heels and dropping his arms with an expression that suggested he wasn't exactly sure how they'd gotten there. He cleared his throat. "You, um...you all right?"

"You saved my life," Eilonwy murmured, astonishment sliding swiftly into guilt. She wished she hadn't called him stupid, wished she had...oh, she didn't know _what_ she wished. Taran looked embarrassed, and picked at a weed growing at his knee.

"Well, you saved mine. So we're even." He glanced up at her and grinned; the first smile she'd seen from him, first smile she'd seen from _any_one that wasn't sneering or mocking or bitter. His was the tiniest bit crooked over very straight teeth, and something in her chest gave a queer, lopsided flutter at the sight.

"Well, but..." she stammered. "I mean...thank you. That was quite courageous, running back up there when you'd already gotten out. I wouldn't have expected it of an assistant pig-keeper. It's wonderful when people surprise you that way."

His grin turned into a smirk of amused annoyance, as though he were trying to decide whether to be offended or pleased. It made her laugh.

"I meant...never mind." She looked back at the castle, reached out with that inner sense that had always linked her to it, but there was nothing but silence. Emptiness. Instead she felt the weighty presence of the sword, still clutched in both her hands. Wouldn't Achren love to get her claws on this...

_Achren_. She sucked in her breath, staring at the fallen stones. "I wonder what happened to Achren. She'll be furious, probably blame everything on me. She's always punishing me for things I haven't even thought of yet."

Taran followed her gaze grimly. "If Achren is under all that, she'll never punish anyone again. But I don't think we'd better stay to find out." He rose stiffly, brushed the dust from his clothes, and arranged the sword he'd taken from the barrow at his waist.

Eilonwy examined the sword she carried, too long to hang from her waist, and who wanted something banging into your hip all the time anyway? She slung the leather belt over her shoulder, settling the sword's weight at her back, and looked up to see Taran staring. "Why," he said, "that's the sword the king was holding."

She shrugged. "Naturally." No point in trying to explain that it had called to her. He'd only be confused. "It should be the best one, shouldn't it?" Her bauble was sitting on the ground, still alight, and she bent to retrieve it. "Now then. We're at the far side of...well, what used to be the castle. Your friend is down there among the trees, assuming he waited for you. I'd be surprise if he did, with all this going on," she added.

Taran brightened at the mention, however. "Gwydion!" he gasped, and took off toward the grove. Eilonwy, a few steps behind him, halted in confusion, her heart sinking.

_Who was Gwydion?_


	8. Aftermath

**Aftermath**

_Animals. Animals. Not to be trusted._

_Ordinary people do not understand us. They will betray you. Hurt you. _

_Your books may speak of love. Of friendship. They are weak substitutes for power, the grasping of mortals for that which they cannot have. _

She sobbed, gulped, pressed her hands over her ears, but the voice came from within. Even buried under a castle's worth of stone, Achren would haunt her, that relentless voice speaking lies.

Were they lies? She _wanted_ them to be lies. But...

Eilonwy clawed at the ground, angrily ripping up chunks of moss and throwing them as hard as she could at a nearby boulder, watching them leave dirty streaks, like blood, down the rough surface. If that...that _assistant pig-keeper_ were here wouldn't she love to smash some in his face.

It was his face she could not forget - the pain and the fury in it when he'd accused her of betraying him, shouted that she was no better than Achren. The very thought of it made her own face crumple again. He was horrible_, unspeakable_; he'd actually raised his sword against her and she would never forgive him for it, never, not even if he begged.

It was her own fault. She'd let her guard down; trusted him, even, made herself vulnerable. _Trust is a chink in your armor_, Achren whispered, from far away; she saw those white teeth and red lips in her mind and rose, growling out loud_. If you don't care, no one can hurt you_.

It must be true. Look at what had happened, how false he'd turned out to be. After all his pretending to care, protecting her as the castle was falling...she thought again of the safety of his arms at her back, and flopped onto the boulder, covering her face.

Where would she go now? The castle was gone, the two people she'd rescued didn't even know each other, and anyway she'd walk over the edge of a cliff before she'd go anywhere with that _stupid, stupid boy._

The snap of a twig made her jump, and she looked up to see him marching toward her resolutely. So, he meant to carry on with battle, did he? Very well_. That_ she could handle. All her anguish rose and reddened and turned to anger, powerful and familiar. Next to her, her bauble flared brilliantly.

"You've made me cry!" she flung at him furiously. "I _hate_ crying; my nose feels like a melting icicle. You've hurt my feelings, you stupid assistant pig-keeper, and all for something that's your own fault to begin with."

Taran halted, his demeanor changing to defensive confusion. "_My_ fault?"

"Yes, yours," she cried. "Every bit. You were the one so close-mouthed about who you wanted me to rescue, never told me his name, just kept going on about your friend in the other cell. So that's who I rescued - the man in the other cell."

"You didn't _tell_ me there was anyone else in the dungeon."

"There _wasn't_. Fflewddur Fflam or whatever he calls himself was the only one." Oooh, if she were on the ground. There was nothing on this boulder to throw at him.

"Where is my companion?" he demanded. "Where is Gwydion?"

"I don't know," she insisted. "He was _never _in the dungeon."

He fell into a moody silence and she felt her fury subsiding into dull, smoldering resentment, both at him and at this Gwydion, whoever he was. He'd caused her a lot of trouble for nothing, apparently.

Taran spoke again."What could she have done with him?" His voice had lost its accusatory tone, and she sniffed.

"I haven't any idea. She could have brought him to her chambers or locked him in a tower. There's a dozen places she could have hidden him. You could have said, 'Go rescue a man named Gwydion' and I would have found him. But no, you had to be so clever about it and keep everything to yourself..."

His shoulders slumped in defeat. "I must go back to the castle and find him. Will you show me where he might have been imprisoned?"

Eilonwy crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. "There's nothing left of the castle, and anyway I'm not sure I want to help you anymore, if all the thanks I'm to get is a lot of name-calling and meanness. That was like putting caterpillars in somebody's hair."

She turned away from him, sulking, but from the corner of her eye saw his head bow. "I am sorry," he murmured. "I accused you falsely. My shame is as deep as my sorrow."

This made her pause. She tried to remember if she'd ever admitted to being ashamed, and couldn't. Her anger fizzled out like foam in the sunshine. Perhaps she would forgive him after all. Maybe. If he continued to be properly repentant. "I should think it would be."

"You're right in refusing to help," he continued, turning away. "It is no concern of yours. I shall seek him alone."

He...what? He was supposed to stay and beg for forgiveness. Oh...blast him. Even humbled in penitence, he was maddening. "Well, you don't have to agree with me so quickly," she cried, scrambling off the boulder to follow him.

They made their way back to Fflewddur Fflam, who was waiting where they'd left him, quietly brushing down Melyngar, and she was mollified at Taran's apologetic recounting of where the mistake had come in. The older man accepted it graciously and consented to help in the search for Gwydion. While Taran turned back toward the castle ruins and left them behind with long-legged strides, Fflewddur, she noticed, measured his pace to hers.

He was _so_ nice. She was silent for a moment, feeling chagrin in her turn as she thought of her harsh words and thoughts about him. If Taran could admit to being wrong, she should be able to as well, shouldn't she? It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation.

"Fflewddur," she began hesitantly. "I...I'm sorry I said those things to you. About abandoning Taran. Of course you knew nothing of any of it." She let her breath out in a relieved whoosh at the end. There. Not so terrible.

His glance upon her was mild. "Tut, my girl," he said gently. "I'll admit to a few minutes of confusion. But no harm done. If I really _had_ been who you'd thought I was, you'd have been absolutely right, and honorable about it, too." He rubbed his bristled chin thoughtfully. "Where'd you learn that kind of loyalty? Don't tell me that Achren-woman taught it to you. I wouldn't trust her with a pet rat."

Eilonwy laughed lightly and then screwed up her face. "I don't know exactly. Books, I suppose." She really had no idea where she'd gotten any of her notions that directly opposed Achren, who put it all up to rebellion and pig-headedness just for their own sake. Perhaps that was all it was.

"Well," said Fflewddur, "at any rate, confused as I was, saved is saved, and I owe you a great debt. When that castle came down all I could think was that you were still inside it. You've no idea how glad I was to see the two of you coming down that hill. A Fflam is optimistic! But that was quite..."

He broke off, gesturing wordlessly at the sight before them. The ruins of Spiral Castle lay silent in the moonlight, a broken, gloomy landscape of despair. Taran was climbing about precariously on the fallen stones. He called to them, and they spent many fruitless minutes trying to move the giant boulders - more than she wanted to, but he was insistent, and, seeing his grief, she had not the heart to point out how useless it was. This he acknowledged, finally, himself.

"This shall stand as Gwydion's burial mound," Taran said, gazing around at the rubble in defeat. Beside her, Fflewddur sighed and shook his head.

There was a company of dead guards lying in the rubble just within the gates, and though Fflewddur's suggestion that they arm themselves with the weapons of the fallen was a sound one, she shuddered as they neared the bodies. To be sure, one saw horrible things frequently around Spiral Castle, but she didn't usually see them so closely. As soon as Taran had handed her a small dagger that fit her hand well, she turned away from the wreckage and walked a few paces away, feeling ill.

They made their way silently down the slopes, and after a brief squabble about how far they should separate themselves from the ruins, made for the woods and found a secluded glade, distant enough to satisfy Taran. She watched Fflewddur throw himself on the ground after carefully placing his odd-shaped pouch on a root - a harp, she realized, remembering some mention of his being a bard. He was snoring in minutes.

She wished it were as easy as that for her. The grass was thick and afforded some cushion, but the cold of the ground beneath soaked up through it, relentless, and she turned restlessly. Taran had handed her a cloak from Melyngar's saddlebags, and she bunched as much of it underneath her head as she could without sacrificing its warmth. Furthermore, she was hungry; she'd not eaten since midday, and her stomach complained audibly.

Taran was standing beneath a tree nearby, on watch. He still looked sad and anxious; when he noticed her looking at him he turned away, but she did not feel anger there, only pain.

"I'm sorry about your friend," she said gently. His hunched shoulders drooped a little.

"Thank you." He was silent a moment, and then, unexpectedly, turned back around and gazed at the sky. "It's strange, you know. I only met him yesterday, but...I'd heard of Gwydion all my life. The greatest hero, the greatest _man_ in Prydain...and now he's dead because of me." His voice broke like a cracked jar on the last word; he dug his hands into his eyes.

She sat up; almost ran over to him, but he had turned his back to her again. "Don't say that," she urged. "It wasn't your fault, anymore than it was Fflewddur's. How could you have known he wasn't in the dungeon? It was a perfectly understandable mistake."

"It's not that," he said gruffly, still not looking at her. "When the cauldron-born came upon us, he fought to protect me. He knew he couldn't slay them, but if I had not been there to hinder him, he might have escaped."

She considered this. "Well. It isn't as though you brought them to you on purpose. And it doesn't seem very helpful to me to think about what _might_ have happened once it's done. I don't know what Gwydion thought, but if he was as great as you say, then I should think he'd be glad to protect you. Isn't that what heroes _do_?"

Taran made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a bitter laugh. "I suppose." He turned back toward the glade and she could see his face again, tense and drawn. "I'm not sure I know much about heroes, anymore. Gwydion was nothing like I imagined he'd be." He looked down, digging his toe in the dirt. "He was much more."

She leaned back, perched on her elbows. "Well, what _was_ he like?"

Taran shook his head. "Very rough and plain. I didn't even believe him when he told me who he was. You know, you expect royalty to be..."

She raised an eyebrow at his hesitation. "To be what?"

"To be obvious."

"I see." Her dry tone seemed to escape him.

"But he wasn't. He'd been traveling a while, and...well, you know, it showed. But I could tell after a while that he was...different. He spoke very little but everything he said _mattered_. You could tell he knew so much more, and cared about things that most people wouldn't, and..." Taran fell silent for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know how to describe him. Maybe it was because he was not like other men. Maybe all the House of Don are like that."

Eilonwy sat up again at the name. "Wait. He was a Son of Don?"

Taran stared. "Don't you know who Gwydion is?"

She shook her head. "Achren never talked about the Sons of Don unless she was vowing revenge on all of them, and then she wasn't particular about specific ones." She knew the House of Don was the ruling family of Prydain, the people Achren called usurpers and pretenders. But the name Gwydion had meant nothing to her. He _had_ been important then; too important, indeed, for the dungeon. What _had_ Achren done with him? It could not have been anything good. She shivered.

He gave a low whistle. "I thought everyone knew who Gwydion was. It must be terrible to be ignorant."

She glared at him sharply, but that grin was back, disarming even under its veil of weary sadness, and she swallowed the retort that had sprung to her lips, feeling her face grow warm. "Very funny, Taran of Caer Dallben. It's not my fault I've lived in that beastly hole so long."

He chuckled softly. "You must be glad to see the last of it."

She was silent, dreading lest he ask where she intended to go next, but he said nothing more for a time, and then only murmured. "You'd better get some sleep. Who knows if we might have to move before morning."

True enough. She flipped to her back and gazed up at the sky. The shredded clouds were parting, leaving black windows for the stars to wink through. There were so many, brilliant as gems, twinkling as though they were laughing at some celestial joke. How lovely to be able to see them, not just to know they were swinging slowly above while you slept. How delicious to sleep in this air, smelling the damp green of the woods instead of shut in with curtains and who-knew-what roaming through your room. No one making frightening noises. Just the wind and the leaves whispering, and the small rustles of little night-creatures going about their business. And a tomorrow with no Achren in it.

_No Achren_. She took a deep, contented breath, and closed her eyes.


	9. First Light

**First Light**

She couldn't remember ever seeing the sun rise.

Her casement faced west, for one thing, and even if it hadn't, she'd never been an early riser. What with the night noises and the uneasy spirit of the castle, Eilonwy was always restless, finally succumbing to exhaustion in the wee hours and then drifting, comatose, until mid-morning, when a surly serving-woman left her breakfast unceremoniously outside her chamber and beat upon her door to wake her up. On occasion Achren had gotten her up earlier for some sort of lesson that had to be practiced in the wee hours...but those never had anything to do with the sun, or with light, for that matter.

Thus explained her surprise when she opened her eyes, found herself damp and chilled with dew but otherwise feeling marvelous, and saw the sky over the eastern ridge just barely streaked with pink and pale gold, like the inside of a seashell.

The woods were utterly still; a stillness not as the shut-in silence of the dungeon cell but something vast and high and fresh, a slow breath before the world awoke. The air pulsed sweet and green and _alive_...she shut her eyes again and breathed with it, deeply, felt the life shimmering in the earth beneath and the trees around, thousands and thousands of filaments of light throbbing and intersecting. Oh, this was lovely, this...was _wonderful;_ she'd never sleep indoors again. Well, unless it was raining. Or snowing. Or...well, not if she could help it, anyway.

Some sort of bedding would have been welcome though, she realized, as she stretched and felt several places aching from their night on the unforgiving ground. Her foot bumped into something warm and soft; she looked down, startled, and saw that that bizarre dog-like creature who had shown up in the middle of the night - Gurgi, he called himself - had curled up at her feet. She gazed at him curiously, but not without fondness, for his antics and speech had been amusing and he had clearly taken a liking to her. He had, in fact, run to her for protection from Taran, who manifestly disliked him and accused him of all sorts of treachery but had put up with him, if ungraciously, in the end. When she moved he whimpered, and one...foreleg? arm?...pawed at the air.

A movement from beneath a nearby tree caught her eye; Fflewddur was there, sitting on watch, and Gurgi's small noise had drawn his attention. When he saw she was awake he smiled good-naturedly.

"Almost morning," he whispered, pointing at the eastern sky. A single brilliant star hovered in the turquoise band above the rose-and-gold horizon.

Eilonwy sat up and yawned. "How long have you been on watch? I could have taken a turn." He shrugged as though it didn't matter, but she knew none of them could have slept very long. It had already been the middle of the night when they'd settled down in the first place. "Go and rest a bit longer," she urged him. "I'll guard for a while."

"Oh, never mind me," he protested, as she rose stiffly and shook the dead leaves out of her gown. "A Fflam is alert! And I slept like a log. Besides, I can march for days on just a few hours' sleep..."

A muffled sound, like a hammer striking metal, seemed to emanate from a tree a few feet away - the one where he'd placed his harp for the night. Fflewddur cleared his throat. "Well. Come to think of it, another hour or so would be welcome. It was quite the night, wasn't it? Sleep well?"

"Fantastically." Eilonwy grinned at him, possessed with a sudden impulse to throw her arms around him and squeeze, which she shoved down quickly in consternation. How very odd. But he was so...so... ridiculously _likeable_. She was sincerely sorry about Gwydion, particularly now that she knew who he was, but she couldn't be sorry that the mistake had saved Fflewddur.

She set her back against the same tree he'd picked, facing east across their little camp, and propped the sword from the barrow next to her. Fflewddur folded his long limbs onto the turf, balling his cloak beneath his head, and once again all was still. The light was growing slowly, silhouetting the three lumpy forms of those sleeping on the ground and a black lacing of alder trees behind them.

Eilonwy gazed at the brightening sky, all senses alert, marveling. How strange and wonderful that you could wake up in the same old dark place you'd lived in as long as memory, beginning the day the same way you'd begun hundreds of days before... and in the next dawn you were watching the light kiss the earth as though for the first time, and knowing you'd never have to go back. An exquisite shiver ran down her back at the irrevocable finality of it.

To be sure, she had no idea where she was going from here. There had been a lot of talk, last night when Gurgi arrived, about battle hosts massing, death-lords, kings with horns, and other ominous things. According to Taran, all was not well in the land, and there were urgent matters afoot...but still, particularly under those circumstances, one less evil enchantress skulking about in a castle was a good thing, wasn't it? She meant to be glad of _that_, at least, whatever else came about.

A bird twittered sleepily in the trees nearby and she held her breath, enraptured, as another answered it. The alder leaves rustled, whispering secrets. All around her hummed the life-surge of things growing and waking up, countless tiny breaths meshing in a silent morning song. Ears pricked, listening, she fancied she could almost hear the rhythm of a beating heart beneath the stillness, and presently grinned at herself; it was her own. She leaned against the embrace of the tree at her back, eyes upon the sky, and lost complete track of time.

The light grew stronger, ever so slowly, until there came a glorious moment when she could no longer look at the horizon for its brightness, and had to turn to know the sun rose, watching his golden light lay brilliance across the spaces between the trees, broken by long lavender shadows. Across the span of the forest, birds trilled into full chorus. She thought giddily that the whole world seemed to dance with joy, compelling, inviting, buoying her up until she could barely contain the impulse to dance along with it. She raised her arms in welcome to the sun, and twirled experimentally on one foot, before settling back against the tree, laughing softly at her own exuberance. Best not get too carried away. After all, she was supposed to be on watch, and if the others woke up and saw her doing that they'd think she'd gone mad.

The sleeping figures on the ground were growing more distinct in the light and she gazed at them all fondly. Fflewddur, who looked like nothing so much as a sprawling pile of patchwork, was snoring again. Gurgi had burrowed so far into a mass of dead leaves that only one furry shoulder was visible, itself so bestrewn with twigs and leaves that had she not known he was there she would have overlooked him entirely. Taran was stretched a little away from the others, lying prone with one arm thrown out and face pressed against the ground like a supplicant; a submissive posture that, somehow, twisted at her heart. He had no cover or cloak; he'd given her the only extra one in the saddlebags.

Well, she could fix _that_ anyhow. Stepping as lightly as she could, she crossed the little glade toward him, flipped the woolen cloak from her shoulders, and laid it over him gently, holding her breath lest he catch her at it. But he never moved, not even a twitch; after his last few days, she reasoned, he ought to sleep like the dead, and goodness knew he'd earned it.

She studied his sleeping form thoughtfully, contemplating the events that had transpired since the moment she'd laid eyes on him yesterday. Such a little thing, to lose her bauble down a grate...and now this. A queer fancy struck her that her bauble had bounced away on purpose, as though by design. It was silly, perhaps, but didn't seem any less believable than the idea that everything had happened purely by chance. There was a strange sort of..._deliberateness_ about the whole thing.

Well, however it had happened, here they were. Where would they go next? Where would _she_ go? The vague idea of seeking shelter among strangers still lingered in her mind, but she found herself reluctant to imagine parting company with her new companions. Perhaps it was just the familiarity forced on them by the last few hours; whatever their faults and foibles, Fflewddur and Taran were now bound to her in shared experience, and for the first time in her memory she was actually enjoying the presence of other human beings, a sensation too novel and too pleasant to give up very soon. Well, she would wait and see. They were several days from anywhere, and there would be time enough on the journey to decide where it should take her in the end.

Taran twitched, mumbled something indecipherable, and rolled onto his side. Alarmed, Eilonwy dropped into an instinctive crouch, but he did not awaken. Now she could see his face, peaceful and quiet in sleep, completely void of the anxiety and turmoil it had borne nearly every moment since they'd met. It was blank, open, full of every possibility.

She thought of that crooked grin, and wondered what he looked like when he laughed.


	10. Of Magic Swords and Unofficial Bards

**Of Magic Swords and Unofficial Bards**

Returning to her tree, Eilonwy leaned against the knobbly bark, and her shin knocked into the sword propped at her side. She looked down at it in surprise, realizing for the first time how quiet it was being. The potent presence of the previous evening was now only a brooding whisper, pooling in the back of her mind. But it still drew her eye magnetically once she'd glanced at it, and she picked it up to examine it in full daylight, sitting down cross-legged at the foot of the tree.

It was old, that much was certain; the scabbard, though polished metal, was mottled and black, etched with intricate designs. The disk-shaped pommel was set with a garnet-red jewel, around which interlaced carved hounds bit each other's tails; the long grip was ridged and the crossguard was adorned with twisting vines, studded with blue and green jewels as flowers. It was a treasure of skilled workmanship, masterfully crafted. She traced one twisting vine with a finger, following it around the crossguard to the edge of the blade, where...

_Llyr. _With a small hiss of pain she jerked her hand back and shook it. The sword had _stung_ her; not a vicious sting like a wasp's, but a warning jab, like when you'd touched a hot coal unwittingly. She stuck her fingertip in her mouth and stared searchingly at the weapon...oh. There it was. A warding glyph, smack in the middle of the scabbard at the hilt where any fool should have been able to spot it; it was lucky she'd gotten the point before trying to draw the blade, which would have been her next move.

_Well, really_, she thought in annoyance. _All that trouble to drag you from underneath the castle, and now you can't even be used? That was a dirty trick to play. _The magic in her head moved a little, amusement and satisfaction the primary impressions. She frowned at it, half-minded to bury it where she stood, or toss it up into the branches overhead, there to hang by its belt until doomsday. But no, of course not - it was much too powerful to be left lying around, so now she must be burdened with it until who knew when. Blast the thing.

There were stirrings among her companions now; it was full morning and the brightness of the light would no longer allow sleep. Gurgi sat up first, showering leaves; he yawned, showing a ring of very white, sharp teeth, and scratched one ear with a gangly hind foot before noticing her, whereupon he came bounding over, immediately energetic. "Noble lady wakes first in the brightness and lightness! She has crunchings and munchings to share with Gurgi for his breakfast?"

She giggled. "No, not yet. There's munchings in the saddlebag, but you'll have to wait for everyone. We're all hungry," she added warningly, as he instantly looked in the direction of the bags, a crafty expression flattening his ears to his head.

"Gurgi will wait," he said, slinking toward Melyngar with sly purpose. "He will wait by the bags with guardings and hoardings so that nothing happens to them, and the great fearsome warriors will be pleased."

She wasn't so sure about that, but he appeared to be controlling himself; at any rate he only sniffed eagerly at the bags, exclaiming over whatever he smelled. His noise, however, finally woke Taran, who scrambled up hastily when he noticed the creature's proximity to their food.

"Get away from there, you." He shooed Gurgi away, frowning like a thundercloud. Eilonwy could see that he had made some attempt to wipe the evidence of their underground travels from his face, but since he'd apparently used his own shirt, the effect was ghastly. Probably she didn't look much better. Hopefully they'd come upon a spring or stream soon and could all have a proper wash. But all the water in the world wouldn't wash that fretful look from his face...she sighed, thinking he'd looked better asleep, and returned her attention to the sword.

There were runes running diagonally across the scabbard, but she couldn't read them; they were oddly shaped, or even malformed - it couldn't be possible, though, for a weapon of otherwise flawless craftsmanship to have a botched inscription, could it? The shapes twisted in front of her eyes mockingly, bringing a vivid memory of the shifting trick passageways of Spiral Castle, and she scowled at the sword. _Stop it_.

A scuffling of leaves nearby caught her attention; Taran was approaching with food, but it was clear what interested him; his eyes were fixed eagerly on the weapon in her lap. Instinctively she snatched it up and held it away from him. The silly boy was sure to try to draw it, first thing.

He made an uneasy attempt at a laugh. "You needn't act as if I were going to steal it from you." Crouching next to her, he handed her a portion of their meager provisions; she tore at a strip of dried meat and watched him dubiously as he gazed at the sword. His hands fairly quivered with anticipation. "Come, let me see the blade."

"I dare not." Gripping the sword tightly under one arm, she held the scabbard under his nose and pointed to the glyph. "You see this? That's a symbol of power, and it means 'forbidden'. "

He frowned doubtfully. "How do _you_ know that?"

"Because I've seen it before, on some of Achren's things," she retorted, annoyed at his tone. "Of course, all her things are like that, but some are more forbidden than others. And this mark's the strongest of the lot." She turned the scabbard in her hands and tapped at the black metal. "There's another inscription, too, but it's in the Old Writing, and Achren never finished teaching me that." Actually she'd balked at learning it, mainly because the things Achren had made her read in it were so ugly. If she'd known it would ever actually be useful for anything else she'd have paid better attention. "I can almost make it out, but not quite, and there's nothing more irritating. It's like not finishing what you started out to say."

Fflewddur was up by now also, stretching his long limbs and looking refreshed. Attracted by their conversation, he strode over and squinted down at the sword. "Comes from a barrow, eh? I suggest getting rid of it immediately. Never had much confidence in things from barrows. You can't be sure where else they've been and who all's had them; it's a bad business to get mixed up in."

"But if it's an enchanted weapon shouldn't we keep it..." Taran began, and Eilonwy clapped her hands over her ears.

"Oh, be quiet, both of you; I can't hear myself think." She glared at the two of them in outrage. "I don't see what you're talking about, getting rid of it or not getting rid of it. It's mine, isn't it? I found it and carried it out, and almost got stuck in a dirty old tunnel because of it." Taran's hand was creeping toward the sword again and she slapped it away. "Besides, it _is_ a magic sword, and I count one person here who knows a thing about magic."

Taran scowled back at her. "And can't read the inscription. What about you, Fflewddur? Bards are supposed to understand these things."

Fflewddur smiled and bent over the sword with great ceremony. "Naturally. These inscriptions are all pretty much the same. I see this one's on the scabbard rather than the blade." He glanced over it quickly. "It says, oh, something like 'Beware My Wrath' - the usual sentiments."

Another metallic ping sounded from somewhere beyond him, and he straightened up, smile fading. Eilonwy peered in the direction of the noise and saw that he'd removed his harp from its case. It was sitting a few feet away, a lovely instrument with an elegant curve; one string had apparently just snapped and the loose end trailed in the sunlight like an airy strand of spider silk. Fflewddur cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he mumbled, and turned away with the attitude of a dog caught thieving from the kitchens. She watched him, puzzled, until an impatient movement from Taran returned her attention to the sword.

Some trick of the light or change in angle pulled at her eye and at once the nonsense characters straightened themselves. "Wait, I _can_ read it. Some of it anyway. It starts near the hilt and goes winding around like ivy; I was looking at it the wrong way." She flipped the weapon around and settled it in a more convenient orientation. "First it says _Dyrnwyn_. I don't know whether that's the name of the sword or the name of the king." She scanned the next line eagerly. "Oh, yes, it's the sword; here it is again. _Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of royal blood, to rule, to strike the.._.something or other. I can't see it; the letters are worn smooth." She squinted, and held the scabbard closer until her nose almost touched it; it was no illusion; the characters faded again, and not from any trick of her eyes or the sword. "No, that's odd. They've been scratched out and there's only a trace left, not enough to read. This word might be 'death', how very cheerful." She shuddered distastefully, but what could you expect of a sword, after all?

"Let me unsheathe it," Taran pressed, practically bouncing on his knees. "There might be more on the blade."

Did he _ever_ listen? She cast him a look of longsuffering annoyance. "I told you I _can't_. I'm bound by this symbol - it's elementary."

"Achren cannot bind you any longer," he argued. Good Llyr, there was no angle he wasn't going to try, was there? Assistant pig-keepers were a stubborn lot.

"It isn't Achren," she huffed, patience growing thin. "I only said she had things with the same mark, but this is stronger enchantment than anything she could do." She could tell, by the gleam in his eye, that this only made him more interested, and added, "I wouldn't dare draw it myself, and I'm not about to let you do it. It says _only royal blood_ - not a word about assistant pig-keepers."

His eyes finally left the sword and focused on her face; miffed, but at least his attention was diverted. "How can you tell I don't have royal blood? I wasn't _born_ an assistant pig-keeper. For all you know my father might have been a king. It happens all the time in _The Book of Three_."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, remembering his ignorance of her own lineage as she'd rattled it off in the dungeon. Whatever _The Book of Three_ was, reading it apparently didn't make daft boys any wiser. "I never heard of _The Book of Three_, but in the first place, it's not good enough to be a king's son, or even a king. Royal Blood is just a way of translating it; it's more than just being royal or having royal relatives - anybody can have those. It means..." She shrugged, sighing. "Oh, I don't know what you'd call it. Something very special. And I think if you have it, you don't need to wonder whether you do."

Taran sat back on his heels and crossed his arms, eyes flashing resentfully. "So of course you've made up your mind that I'm not - whatever it is."

Somewhere under his annoyance she picked up a glimmer of wounded pride, and immediately - if inexplicably - felt her own anger ebb like low tide. "I didn't mean to offend you." He looked away, brows furrowed; she bit her lip and added, "For an assistant pig-keeper, I think you're quite remarkable."

Taran snorted at this, but it was half-hearted, and she saw a flush creeping up his neck. "Really. I even...I think you may be the nicest person I've ever met in my life." His eyes darted back to her at this, glittering green, astonishment in them, and...and what had she meant to say? What was...oh yes. "It's just...I'm forbidden to let you have the sword. And that's that."

He was silent for a moment, during which she tried to make sense of her emotions and couldn't. What had possessed her to say that? Fflewddur, in fact, was nicer in many ways, but somehow, of the two of them, she felt...

"What will you do with it, then?"

Oh, Belin, could he _never _stop thinking about the wretched sword? Peeved at the interruption of her thoughts, she sniffed. "Keep it, naturally. I'm not going to drop it down a well, am I?"

His mouth twisted. "You'll make a fine sight - a little girl carrying a sword."

There it was again - and after what she'd said, too, the ungrateful twit. "I am _not_ a little girl," she growled through clenched teeth, tempted to shove him. "Among my people in the olden days, the Sword-Maidens did battle beside the men."

His chin was jutting out stubbornly. "It's not the olden days now. Instead of a sword, you should be carrying a doll."

_How dare he_...she felt the sting of his scorn for only a moment before fury bubbled up like the contents of a cauldron, scalding, pushing a wordless squeal of anger before it; without thought her hand reared to strike him...

...and stopped, caught in midair, and she found herself staring at the mild face of Fflewddur Fflam, who had grabbed her sleeve. "Here now, no squabbling." He shook his head reproachfully. "There's not a bit of use to it."

She yanked her arm from his grasp, irritation battling with an unwelcome pang of remorse at his expression. "That inscription was a very important one. It didn't say anything about bewaring anyone's wrath. You didn't read it right at all." He shifted uncomfortably, reddening when she added, "You're a fine bard, if you can't make out the writing on an enchanted sword."

Fflewddur sucked in his breath and blew it back out loudly, puffing his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "Well, you see, the truth of the matter is...I'm not an official bard."

He looked so embarrassed that she was sorry for him, and forgot her annoyance. "I didn't know there were unofficial bards."

He grinned as he pulled a large key from one of his patchwork pockets and applied it to a peg of his instrument. "Oh, yes. At least in my case. I'm also a king."

_Of course_, Eilonwy thought, remembering his courtly bow of the evening before with a flash of understanding.

Taran was gaping, and immediately fell to one knee; she almost snorted, stopping herself when Fflewddur humbly shooed him back up. She gazed at the tall man with new respect. "Where is your kingdom?"

"Ah," he said, eyes lighting, and hands spread wide, "it's a vast realm..." The harp suddenly jangled like a set of windchimes, drawing all their attention. Two more strings had snapped.

"Drat the thing," Fflewddur muttered. "As I was saying, it is actually a very _small_ kingdom in the north, very dull and dreary. So I gave it up. I've always loved barding and wandering, so that's what I decided to do."

Eilonwy cocked her head quizzically, mulling over appropriate passages from related books. "I thought bards had to study for ages. You can't just go and decide..."

"Ah, yes, well, that was one of the problems," Fflewddur sighed, plucking a few harp strings absently; soft notes like raindrops plunking into a puddle sang around them. "I studied, and did quite well in the examinations..." Another string popped, its _ping_ discordant against the golden tones, and he muffled all the strings hurriedly. "I, uh, did quite _poorly, _and the Council wouldn't admit me."

Suspicion building, she felt an urge to laugh as Fflewddur complained about the insurmountable challenge of mastering bardic lore, and, around his shoulder, caught Taran's eye unexpectedly. He looked amused, glancing at the harp and then back at her, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and she instantly forgot her irritation with him.

"Taliesin, the Chief Bard himself, presented me with this harp; said it was exactly what I needed," Fflewddur went on, "but I sometimes wonder if he was really doing me a favor. It has a lovely tone, but I have such trouble with the strings, you see."

Eilonwy covered her mouth and coughed to disguise the laugh that _would_, in spite of her efforts, burst out. "They do seem to break frequently."

"Yes, so they do." He stroked the neck of the instrument cautiously, as one might stroke a pet bird prone to biting, and cleared his throat. "It usually happens when-well, I'm an emotional sort of fellow - you may have noticed - and I do get carried away. I might...readjust the facts from time to time...purely for dramatic effect, you understand."

_Readjusting the facts_, she'd have to remember that next time Achren caught her in a bald-faced lie...except no, she'd never have to do that again. Eilonwy grinned openly at the bard. "If you'd stop readjusting the facts quite so much, perhaps you wouldn't have that trouble with the harp."

"I suppose," he owned sheepishly. "But it's hard, very hard. As a king, you get into the habit. Sometimes I think I spend more time fixing strings than playing. But, there it is. You can't have everything." He ran a fingertip along the strings again, and a cascade of sweet tones rippled out.

"Where were you journeying when Achren caught you?" Taran asked, when the last chime had faded.

"Oh," Fflewddur shrugged, gathering up his leather case and sliding the instrument gently inside, "no place in particular. That's one advantage of wandering; you're never in a hurry. You keep moving, and next thing you know, there you are. Unfortunately, in this case, it was Achren's dungeon. She didn't care for my playing." He slung the straps over his shoulders and shook his head. "That woman had no ear for music."

Eilonwy frowned, remembering a few times in her early childhood when Achren had reprimanded her for singing something, snatches of verse about swans and seals and sea foam like white horses...where had she learned it? There was never music at Spiral Castle. Strange that she had never before wondered where her meager memories of it began...


	11. Outrage

**Outrage**

Pulled from her musings by Fflewddur's gesturing to her to sit, Eilonwy realized that Taran was detailing the events that had brought him to Spiral Castle. His face was drawn, turned inward, as he described what he had witnessed of the cruelty of the enemy who was massing forces to march upon the stronghold of Caer Dathyl. This name, at least, she recognized, and it seemed he intended to go there - quite sensible. It would be just the place for her to seek refuge, come to think of it - anyone of prominence there should know her family name and heritage, and grant her sanctuary. Yes, it was a perfect destination.

She was so pleased to have her primary quandary settled that it took her a moment to realize Taran had just asked Fflewddur to "conduct this girl safely to her own people."

She was on her feet in a heartbeat. "Conducted! I shall be conducted where I please!" Taran turned to her in surprise, as though he'd actually forgotten she was there. He started to say something and she cut him off decisively. "I didn't escape from Spiral Castle just so I can be sent some other dreary place. I shall go to Caer Dathyl too."

His brow furrowed, arms crossed; that "little-girl" look was settling, infuriating, on his face. "There is risk enough without having to worry about a girl."

Her hands clutched into fists and she balled them on her hips, partially to keep herself from hitting him. "I don't like being called _'a_ girl' and _'this_ girl' as if I didn't have a name. It's like having your head put in a sack." Stepping up to him, she stabbed a finger into his chest. "If you've made your decision, I've made mine. I don't see how you're going to stop me."

He seemed, for a moment, too taken aback to retort, and she turned to Fflewddur, whose twinkling eyes were belying the gravity of his face. "If _you_ try to take me to my stupid kinsmen - and they're hardly related to me in the first place - that harp will be in pieces around your ears."

The bard's hands tightened on the harp case, but his mouth was twitching. Outraged that even he took her fury so lightly, she turned away from both of them and shouted to the trees. "And if a certain assistant pig-keeper, whose name I won't even mention, thinks otherwise, he'll be even more mistaken!"

"See here," Fflewddur began, "there's no need to-"

But she had already whirled back upon Taran, face flaming. "May I remind you of the reason you're out here in the first place instead of buried in the dungeon? How dare you suggest I couldn't-"

Taran clapped his hands upon his ears. He squinted up his eyes and shouted, "Stop, STOP!"

She did, but only because she was out of breath, and so angry that she had begun to sputter incoherently. By the gods, if she had the slightest idea in which direction Caer Dathyl lay, she'd set off on her own without either of them. "Worry about a girl", indeed...as though, after all she'd done, he expected her to be nothing but a burden. Lovely, yes, that was gratitude...she itched to hex him, and only the thought that it was what Achren would have done stopped her.

Taran was frowning at her loftily, as though at an unruly child. "Very well. You _could_ be tied up and set on Melyngar."

Her thoughts at this were hair-curling, but before she could speak them - perhaps fortunately - he raised an imperious hand. "But that will not be done. Not because of all the commotion you raised, but because I realize now it is best." He glanced at Fflewddur and back to her, with an insufferable air of authority. "There is greater strength in greater numbers. Whatever happens, there will be more chance for one of us to reach Caer Dathyl if we all stay together."

This was sensible, but hardly comforting. She sniffed, feeling betrayed by the traitorous tightness in her throat that suggested what she'd really like to do was cry. Very helpful just now, of course, just the thing to prove to them how capable she was. Confound it, the whole mess, and ungrateful disloyal assistant pig-keepers especially. She huffed loudly and turned away from them all, feigning interest in a nearby bush, and blinked hard to hold back the hot tears springing to her eyes.

Gurgi had joined the group some minutes previously; suddenly his shaggy head shoved itself under her hand and she looked down in surprise. He was looking at her quizzically, amber eyes soft under his whiskery, puckered brows, and a hint of a sympathetic smile - if such a thing was possible on such an animal-like face - brightened when she smiled back weakly at him. A shudder of joy seemed to pass through his whole body and he wiggled all over.

"Faithful Gurgi will come too!" the creature announced boldly, yet he clutched at her robe as if for support. "He will follow! Too many wicked enemies are smirking and lurking to jab him with pointy spears!"

Eilonwy saw Taran's lips tighten at this; his hard gaze fell upon Gurgi, who shrank behind her. She stepped in front of the creature protectively, scowling at the boy, daring him silently to refuse. Taran hesitated, looking at her, and seemed to resign himself. "Fine. But I warn you, nothing must hinder our task." He turned to the bard. "I do not know the lay of the land. Will you act as guide?"

Fflewddur stood, slinging his harp case around his back. "Ordinarily, you know, I'd prefer to be in charge of this type of expedition myself." He spoke mildly, but Eilonwy sensed a hint of rebuke in the words, and was grimly satisfied to see Taran flush and stammer. The bard help up a hand. "No, no, it's all right. Since you are acting for Lord Gwydion, I accept your authority as I would accept his. A Fflam is yours to command." He bowed low and rather theatrically; Taran looked embarrassed, and Eilonwy turned away with a smirk. At least there was someone there who could put the upstart in his place...and if he thought _she'd_ ever bow to him, he had another thing coming. In fact, if he even knew who she was...

"Forward, then!" Fflewddur said brightly, interrupting her thoughts. He stretched out his long limbs and bounced the balls of his feet on the turf. "And if we must give battle, so be it! Why, I've carved my way through walls of spearmen..."

A muffled but tremendous jangling of broken strings sounded from his back, and he fell silent and coughed, ears reddening. Taran, shaking his head, made off toward Melyngar, and Eilonwy watched as the bard unslung the leather case and peered inside ruefully.

She leaned toward him, amused and curious. "How many?"

He sighed. "Six."


	12. Delirium

**Delirium**

From gloom to joy to anger to terror, all in the span of less than a day, Eilonwy thought - at least, as well as she _could_ think, while doggedly slamming one foot in front of the other, trying hard to set her mind on anything but her own exhaustion.

The journey had begun unsatisfactorily and only grown worse, in her opinion. Still brittle and stinging from Taran's comments, she had angrily rebuffed his offer of a ride on Melyngar, and he had avoided speaking to her since, which ought to have suited her very well. The day was beautiful, golden with sunshine, balmy and warm, and it was impossible to sulk while she moved through the shimmering beams and dancing leaf-shadows beneath the trees, but she had carefully kept all her sprightly observations directed only at Fflewddur and Gurgi, who seemed to be sincerely cheerful. Taran had still managed to annoy her, however, by being too preoccupied to notice her lack of acknowledgement. There was nothing worse than ignoring someone who didn't realize they were being ignored. It was like spitting at a waterfall. She might as well have been invisible.

He had hung slightly back from their procession, looking nervous, and frequently glancing behind them. Before long his cry of alarm had startled them all under cover, from whence they had observed the slow, relentless approach of two cauldron-born. At once, the serenity of their march was thrown to the wind; their only hope was to outdistance the deathless warriors, and so they had broken into an endless, punishing run through the woods.

She had held up admirably for the first bit, she thought - particularly as she wasn't exactly used to so much running. It had almost been a pleasure at first, actually, or would have been had it not been their lives at stake. Achren had always forbidden running through the corridors of the castle, a rule with wisdom in it given that you never knew who or what sort of unsavory character you might collide with if you weren't careful. Eilonwy had often been driven frantic by having to sit motionless for hours of study, and frequently climbed the only two trees that grew within the courtyard walls, or scrambled over certain bits of masonry that were in enough disrepair to allow for good hand and footholds. But these brief exercises did not require very much in the way of endurance, and now, somewhere between midday and evening, with no food and only swift passes of water taken directly from the flask mid-flight, she was nearing the end of her strength.

She'd been hanging on to Melyngar's stirrup for support for the last hour, stubbornly denying her weariness, but her feet were growing heavier; it felt as though the very roots of the trees were reaching up to drag at them. Floundering, she gave up trying to distract her mind and concentrated only on picking each foot up and putting it down, on keeping her breathing deep and measured. Her heart pounded like a hammer inside her chest.

She had several moments of realizing they'd moved a short distance through spaces she couldn't remember - whether they were dark or light, thickly overgrown or clear, muddy or dry and leaf-strewn; she couldn't say; the details were completely absent, as though she'd been asleep. Presently at the end of one of these moments she came to herself and realized she was on her knees, and Taran was pulling her up by the wrist. "Come on," he urged, his voice sounding strange and distant. "It's all right; you're all right, keep going; you must."

She tried to say she knew that, and that he needn't be so commanding all the time, but nothing came out; she had no breath to speak it and no will to find it. Anyway he was pushing her forward, away from her own words, away from thought; she was outrunning her own mind; people lost their minds, didn't they, but you never heard of them just leaving them behind because they couldn't keep up. Maybe that was why...

...why the ground kept moving...

...and up close it smelled like...

...horse-sweat. It wasn't a terrible smell but it wasn't lilacs either, and why was her face pressed against it? It was like being smothered by a dirty, hairy blanket. Gods, why did the ground move, so...no, it wasn't the ground; she must be in bed, but it rolled like the waves in a storm at sea. A boat, then, and someone else sitting in it, holding her in a tight grip, someone she didn't like. And she didn't want to be there, but there was water all around and nowhere to go, so she screamed and screamed but no one came; only a bony white hand with sharp nails that covered her mouth...and...and smelled like horse-sweat. No, that couldn't be right. Achren's hands always smelled like rose-water and magic.

She opened her eyes and saw trees sideways, confused; silly trees, to grow sideways, didn't they know they'd fall over? There were strange noises all around; people breathing hard; low voices murmuring, garbled as though the speakers were underwater. Or maybe it was she who was underwater. The boat was still rolling and pitching underneath her...wait, no, she was draped over a horse, slumped forward into its golden mane. The hair tickled her nose and she tried weakly to brush it away, and only succeeded in tangling her hand in her own hair, which she stared at curiously. Her hair seemed to belong to someone else, some other hand untangling baby-fingers from brilliant red-gold strands that glittered in sunlight, and a soft voice laughing and saying _no_..._no_, _love_, _mustn'tpullmummy'shair_...

She whimpered without knowing why, and dropped the hand; it wasn't hers anyway, nothing was. The waves rocked like a cradle; no, that's right, it was a horse, a white horse, but they were one and the same, after all; Llyr's white horses capped every wave and she would just ride this one in, and perhaps eventually they'd get to land, if there were any worth getting to. Maybe they should just stay in the sea, where it was lovely and cool and dark, so beautifully dark...

Hard ground, the smell of earth, a pull at her shoulder and magic moved in her mind, an alarm. She opened one eye and saw...who was _that_? Oh, yes, that...that assistant pig-keeper, whose name she didn't know or just maybe wouldn't say, and he was trying to take her sword again. The power in it stirred restlessly at the affront and she grabbed the scabbard compulsively, muttering, "You never understand things the first time, do you? I suppose assistant pig-keepers are all alike." She wrapped her arms around the sword like a lover's embrace and the magic curled around her soothingly. "I told you before you're not to have it, and now I'll tell you the second time...or third, or fourth. I've lost count."

Before he could reply she was drifting again, in light and shadow, chasing something always just out of reach. No longer rolling like the ocean...they must have reached land after all, solid and strong; not safe, perhaps, but she held something, something that would keep them all safe...if she could just remember what it was...


	13. Conflicts Without and Within

**Conflicts Without and Within**

When Eilonwy opened her eyes again the light was the warm pink color of early morning, and Fflewddur was there, sitting beneath a nearby tree. She blinked confusedly. Hadn't they just left this scene behind? Was it a dream, bickering with Taran, running from cauldron-born, rocking in a boat...she shook her head. Some of it had to be a dream, at least, but not all, for the trees were different, and Fflewddur looked haggard - though when he saw that she was truly awake, his smile was relieved and delighted.

"Well, now." He rose, crossing to her, and offered her a hand to sit up. "You've had a time of it. How do you feel?"

"Tired," said Eilonwy. "But I don't know if it's more from the running or the riding. I'm not much used to either." She took his hand and pulled herself up, wincing with the effort; every muscle ached, even the ones she'd never noticed before.

"I can't say I'm fond of either of them, myself," said Fflewddur, sitting back down and stretching his legs out; his knees and ankles popped audibly and he grunted. "But I'm less fond of being maimed and murdered. The good news is, we've bought ourselves enough time for a short rest."

He hesitated and she raised an eyebrow at him. "And the bad?"

"Those dead things are still on our trail," he admitted, gesturing vaguely in the direction they'd come. "But, there it is. Nothing we can do but keep on. After a bit of a breather, that is." He crossed his hands over his chest and shut his eyes.

She sighed, wishing she could feel so resigned, but only becoming vexed. It wasn't fair. To escape from Spiral Castle, enjoy one glorious night of peace, and then the very next day nearly kill yourself running like a fox from a pack of hounds - tireless, unrelenting hounds, no less - this was not what freedom ought to be. A perverse, irrational wish to find someone to blame made her look around their surroundings critically. "Where's Taran?"

"He and Gurgi are off foraging," the bard answered, without stirring. "We're out of provisions - but there's your share in the saddlebags, if you're hungry. Do forgive me for not bringing it to you - the truth is, I could sleep for three days."

He looked it, she thought, pushing herself off the ground stiffly and moving toward Melyngar, who whickered at her approach. She dug into the saddlebags, ravenously hungry, and made swift work of what was left of their store...nothing like enough. Still chewing to make it last longer, she returned and sat near Fflewddur, who opened one eye to squint at her. "Feeling better?"

"A bit," she said, and grinned at him. "Probably better than you. I'm sorry I couldn't keep up." She picked up a twig and poked it listlessly into the dirt, smile fading. "I suppose I'm a hindrance after all," she said bitterly. "Just as Taran said."

"Oh, now, none of that," Fflewddur said quickly, patting her knee. "I, for one, am glad to have you with us. We'd not even be this far if not for you - as you pointed out. Don't let that boy's nonsense make you doubt it."

She made a wry face. "He's the one who doubts it. I suppose he'll never let me forget that I couldn't even last the day."

The bard was quiet for a moment; she felt his gaze on her as she continued poking at the ground. Finally he spoke gently. "Don't judge him too harshly, my dear. He's a bit foolhardy, and in far over his head, but he's a good lad. All the while you slept he never spoke a word against you. You could extend him the same courtesy."

She looked back at him, startled, face warming with shame, but he had already shut his eyes again, laying his head back peacefully on the turf. How it was that a rebuke from Fflewddur didn't make her angry?...only sorry. So, Taran had not made comment on her failure to keep up... and it had to be true, for the bard's harp strings had remained silently intact. She considered this in mild surprise. Perhaps she'd misjudged him...but hang it all, if he'd stop _changing _every time she blinked, going from being friendly and likeable one moment to insulting and infuriating the next, it would be so much easier to decide what she really thought of him.

"I'm surprised you're not out foraging, Fflewddur," she said. "Aren't you out in the wilderness half the time?"

"Well," said Fflewddur matter-of-factly, "someone had to stay with you. A Fflam is flexible! And the truth of it is I'm a lousy forager - as I was rudely reminded, when I got a bit too confident, just before they left." He jerked a thumb toward his harp meaningfully and she laughed out loud.

"It's no wonder you're so thin, then."

"The Fflams are all thin," he affirmed contentedly. "I shouldn't want to break tradition. Besides, it enhances our smashing good looks."

Oh, dear heavens, if only _certainotherpeople_ could be as uncomplicatedly adorable as he was. She was still laughing at his last comment when the bushes rattled nearby and Taran stepped through, looking pale, exhausted, and more anxious than ever; on one side he supported the gangly figure of Gurgi, who was holding one leg up awkwardly and whimpering in pain.

She sprang up in concern, forgetting, for the moment, her ambivalence. "What happened?"

"He's hurt," said the boy, handing her two bundled cloaks. He assisted Gurgi slowly, and with surprising gentleness, to the ground, where the creature curled up pathetically around his wounded leg. It was torn and bleeding. "He fell from a tree when the branch he was on broke," Taran explained, his forehead furrowed with worry. "He's going to have to ride Melyngar with you for a time. Could you take the weapons off her? Fflewddur and I will carry them." She glanced at him, hesitating, but there was no note of accusation or reproach in his voice, only weary resignation. Silently she laid the bundles on the ground and crossed to Melyngar to comply with his request.

When she came back, Taran passed her a handful of mushrooms and a small, sticky chunk of honeycomb. "It's all we found before he fell," he murmured apologetically, without looking at her.

She started to say it was better than nothing, noticed the discouraged slump of his shoulders, and changed it to a simple "thank you". His eyes flickered up, meeting her gaze swiftly, and the quiet appreciation in them struck her like a shaft to the heart. Unwillingly she felt her ire draining...oh, confound it; she couldn't detest him but neither could she like him, although...although she desperately wanted to, she realized, face warming. But the minute she let her guard down he'd be sure to say something that would spoil things all over again. Were all boys like that, or just assistant pig-keepers? Perhaps at Caer Dathyl she would meet a few more, and acquire some basis for comparison.

They set off again shortly thereafter, Eilonwy mounting Melyngar without complaint, for she was still weary, and there was no use repeating yesterday's mistakes. The others pushed Gurgi up behind her. His oddly-proportioned legs were better suited for squatting than for straddling a horse, and he had to slump against her back, arms draped around her waist, to stay upright. Taran had bound his wounded limb up in a sling, and the four hairy toes on his foot, each tipped with a blunt black claw, poked intermittently into her thigh. This was less offensive than his wet-hound odor, however, and in his distress he seemed to be shedding handfuls of hair, which kept coming off in clumps and stuck to her robe, or floated behind them in midair like mouse-colored, ungroomed pixies. Still, she could not be more than mildly put off; he was too pitifully anxious to please everyone, and kept exclaiming about the kindnesses of great lords and noble ladies, and declaring his willingness to fight with them if their enemies caught up. She patted the backs of his hands now and then comfortingly.

No one had seen a hint of the cauldron-born since early that morning, she discovered, but they were all tense now, and wary, daring not to assume they had outrun them. However, their pace was inevitably slower, and Taran and Fflewddur often stumbled. Every time it happened Eilonwy felt guiltily grateful to be riding, despite various discomforts which only grew as the day wore on. She thought of several stories she'd read, in which treks on horseback that went on for months were treated as routine, and groaned inwardly at the thought. Her hipbones ached from spanning Melyngar's broad back, and whenever they came to an open place where their pace could quicken, the mare broke into a bone-rattling trot that made her teeth knock together. Fflewddur, from the ground, gave her a few pointers on standing up in the stirrups and gripping with her knees in such moments, but between Gurgi's weight dragging at her from behind and her own lack of riding experience, it was all she could do to stay seated.

By early evening she felt nearly as spent as she had while running the day before, and when they paused midway down the slope of a hill to get their breath she threw a leg over and slid from the saddle with a groan. Gurgi, left behind, slumped forward over the place she'd been sitting, and lay still, whimpering.

She bent over nearly to the ground to stretch out her aching legs, while Taran scanned the land behind them anxiously. Surely they had managed to shake off those creatures after all this time. Even if the cauldron-born themselves did not tire, their horses would, and they had no hounds with which to scent a trail.

But the boy stiffened and beckoned to Fflewddur, pointing to a ridge less than a league away, where two figures had appeared against the sky, stiff as wooden puppets set upon their mounts. Her heart sank.

Taran scrubbed his sweaty face with the back of his sleeve. "It's no use. We must stand against them sooner or later." He turned to the bard. "Let it be now. There can be no victory against them, but if we can hold them off long enough for Gurgi and Eilonwy to escape, there is still a chance."

Eilonwy looked at him in surprise, wondering what sort of "chance" he meant. He had to know that standing against the cauldron-born meant not only defeat but death - and how far were she and Gurgi supposed to be able to get, with him wounded and she with only a hazy idea where to go from there?

Gurgi, from his perch on Melyngar, wailed in protest. "No, no! Faithful Gurgi stays with mighty lord who spared his poor tender head! Happy, grateful Gurgi will fight, too, with slashings and gashings..."

Fflewddur, who had laid his harp on the turf and tightened his swordbelt, wore a grim, grey look unlike anything she had seen upon his face until then. He cast a grimace back at Gurgi. "We appreciate your sentiments, but you're hardly up to slashing or gashing or anything at all."

The two warriors had sighted them and were moving quickly down over the edge of the ridge. Eilonwy watched; cold dread prickled at her scalp, but all at once indignation surged up, a wave of fury that seemed, somehow, to come from something outside of her, choking out fear and making her fists clench at her sides. _Enough. No more. This is not what I was freed for._

Almost before the thought could finish forming she spoke it. "I'm not going to run anymore either. I'm sick of running and having my face scratched and my robe torn, all on account of those stupid warriors." Strong magic swept over her and took shape in her mind; a white-hot flame flared there, familiar - _Dyrnwyn_, of course; it was that sword at her back, fully awake and battle-ready, and she considered it with irritation. _No use your butting in, you useless thing. _

On sudden impulse she snatched a bow and several arrows from Taran's pack, and was pelting up the hill before he could react. She heard him shouting behind her, something about deathless men who couldn't be killed, as though she didn't know, as though she hadn't been _living_ with the creatures for weeks. Well, there was more than one way to flay a prisoner, as Achren was fond of saying.

The great sword bounced around on her back as she ran, its power gathering and condensing like a mass of stormcloud, shot through with the crackling energy of lightning. No wonder Spiral Castle had felt so restless since the cauldron-born had arrived - the power that had forged this weapon was set against them with an intensity bordering on a personal, animate loathing. She had no doubt it could make short work of them, and the irony that so powerful a weapon couldn't actually be used by her or any of her companions only served to increase her ire.

At the top of the hill the land spread before her, a wide stretch of green turf spotted with grey stones, affording a clear shot at the cauldron warriors, who were closing in rapidly. She stopped at the top of a small knoll and had begun to string the bow, when Taran nearly bowled her over by seizing her around the waist from behind. Distracted by her own intent and the overwhelming force of Dyrnwyn's animosity, she had vaguely sensed he was chasing her but had not expected him to attempt to stop her by force; in outrage she struck out blindly. One foot made sharp contact with something and he yelped in pain and let her go.

"Must you always interfere with everything?" she screeched, shoving him out of the way and snatching at an arrow. She was unsure enough of what she was about to attempt without being assaulted by clueless assistant pig-keepers in the process.

Swiftly she scanned the sky, found the sun, and lined up the knocked arrow with its course. Strange words twisted and split around her tongue like threads of silver; an acrid, invisible current tore up from the earth, from the air around her and funneled into the arrow until its fletched end seared her fingers and she loosed it, holding her breath. If this didn't work, they were lost, all of them.

For a moment, a heartbeat, she rejoiced; at the apex of the arc the arrow slivered into silver streamers that ribboned through the air, thickening, branching out and lacing together into a glittering web that drifted down toward the horsemen. Beside her, Taran gasped and uttered a wordless cry of astonishment. Fflewddur, running up, breathlessly exclaimed. "Great Belin, what's that? It looks like decorations for a feast!"

A victorious smile froze on her face...something felt wrong; something _was _wrong; she knew it even before the charging horses tore through the webbing as though it were shreds of grey mist, and she dropped the remaining arrows in dismay. "It didn't work! When Achren does it, it turns into a big sticky rope." The strands were melting away into nothingness; the warriors came on, unabated. "Oh, it's all gone wrong. I tried to listen behind the door when she was practicing, but I've missed something important." In despair she turned away; the warriors would be upon them in a moment, and the sword at her back was filling her thoughts so painfully that, for a moment, she had no room for any of her own.

Taran yanked his blade out and planted his feet, shouting, "Take her away from here!" at Fflewddur, who had grabbed her arm halfheartedly, as though he knew it was no good. Under her feet the ground was rumbling with the hoofbeats of the approaching' horses; Drynwyn almost trembled with its own eagerness to destroy; its power swayed her bodily, crushingly heavy...

...and then it was gone, lifting off, leaving her light as a butterfly. Taran gave a cry of surprise, and she and Fflewddur turned to see the cauldron-born riding away, as expressionless as ever, even their horses as silent as death. "What in..." Fflewddur exclaimed. "It worked! It worked after all."

The metallic reek of magic filled her mouth and Eilonwy spat on the ground in disgust. "No. Something turned them away, but it wasn't my spell." Discouraged, she turned away. What was the use of all Achren's unpleasant lessons if she couldn't use any of them when it counted? Irritably she yanked the bowstring from its notch and gazed critically at the backs of the horsemen.

"I think I know what it was," Taran said, sliding his sword away. "They are returning to Arawn. Gwydion told me they cannot stay long from Annuvin. Their power must have been waning ever since we left Spiral Castle, and they reached the limit of their strength right here."

The warriors disappeared into the trees and Eilonwy scowled after them, personally affronted at their lack of reaction to her efforts. "I hope they don't make it back to Annuvin. I hope they fall into pieces or shrivel up like bats."

Taran shook his head. "I doubt that they will. They must know how long they can stay, and how far they can go, and still return to their master. But it doesn't matter; at least they're gone." He turned to her, face aglow and eyes gleaming golden-green in the warm light of the sinking sun. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen. Gwydion had a mesh of grass that burst into flame, but I've never known anyone who could make a spiderweb out of nothing like that."

The open, frank admiration in his gaze was startling in its intensity; nobody had ever looked at her so, least of all him; between it and the brilliance of his eyes she found herself, for a moment, without the breath to speak. Her heart fluttered like a fledgling bird and pushed a flood of heat up her neck and into her face, bringing with it a giddy sensation of euphoria, and almost unconsciously she smiled at him. "Why, Taran of Caer Dallben. I think that's the first polite thing you've said to me."

His face, already golden in the light, flushed even darker; his returned smile was sincere and eager, and so pleasant that a nervous alarm went off in her mind. _Chink in your armor._

Unwillingly, but unable to stop, she thought of his words the day before. _You should be carrying a doll. Burdened with a girl. Nothing must hinder our task. _

So, she had proven herself useful - almost - and now she was worth his attention? And here she was, blushing like a fool, ready to fall all over herself because he had noticed her. No, he hadn't even done that, had he? - just gotten his head turned by a magic trick. Barely a word to her for her own sake until then, but conjure a few solid strands of enchantment and suddenly she was "amazing". Well, see if she'd stand...or fall...for that.

"I should have known," she said, breaking away from his gaze in a huff and turning on her heel. "It's all about the spiderweb. That's all you care about; not whether I was in danger." Ignoring his awkward protest, she stalked down the slope toward Melyngar, conflicting emotions pricking at her like goads. _That wasn't quite fair to him_, a quiet, reproachful inner voice intoned. She sniffed at it crossly. _Fair _would be to ignore him until he did something astonishing, and so far he hadn't managed to do more than blunder along.

_But, _said the inner voice, _remember what Fflewddur said, how he didn't complain about your having to be carried. _"Humph," she said out loud, startling Melyngar, who pricked an ear back at her mildly. Common decency, that, and he owed it to her after all his big talk the morning before. She wasn't going to forget all that now, just thanks to a few pretty words and moon-calf eyes. Even if they _did _look striking, under those dark brows of his...she shook her head hastily, annoyed with herself. _Honestly_. Besides, last time she had let herself like him he had made her cry within minutes.

Nobody was going to make her cry anymore.


	14. Midnight Musings

**Midnight Musings**

They traveled only a little way further before making camp for the night; though the urgency of the mission had not abated, at least they were no longer running for their lives, and could settle in with a sense of relative peace. Sustained by a few handfuls of hickory nuts they found on the way, physically exhausted and emotionally spent, Eilonwy threw herself to the ground without noticing the roots and pebbles beneath, and instantly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She was awakened in the star-strewn midnight by Fflewddur shaking her gently, and rose, yawning, to take her turn at watch. The rolling hills of the landscape glowed under the full moon, and she settled against an oak trunk with a sigh of appreciation at how the watery silver light softened and muted all the rough edges of the landscape. It wrapped peace like a balm upon her spirit.

The woods had changed in their two-day course; fewer oaks and elms and more evergreens as the land rose and began to buckle upon itself. The air was cooler, and flavored with the sharp, fresh scent of pine and fir, a novelty of which she breathed deeply. She had never been in the hills before, and that seemed to be where they were headed. Caer Dathyl, she understood from Fflewddur's rough sketches, nestled upon the brink of the Eagle Mountains, and she wondered eagerly what the great fortress, mentioned in several of her books, actually looked like. Achren's insane railings against the Sons of Don had not wholly hidden her envy of their wealth and power; even without these attractions, Eilonwy could not help but be curious about anyone Achren so vehemently despised.

Well, with luck, she'd find out soon enough. Her resolve to request sanctuary there had taken firm root in her mind, and she'd begun to imagine her life there with rosy anticipation, entertaining vague images of herself -attired as befitted her rank, of course - strolling through lush gardens, riding on hunts, competing in archery tournaments, sitting at feasts while minstrels played in the background...all the scenes that appeared in tapestries and in her books. Books! Caer Dathyl housed the Halls of Lore...did you have to be a bard to gain entry to them? She'd ask Fflewddur tomorrow. Oh, wouldn't it be exquisite!

On the other hand, the Sons of Don might just pack her back to her kin...whoever they were. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Achren had made it all too clear that Eilonwy was the last remnant of Llyr, and insinuated that the relations responsible for sending her to Spiral Castle had done so out of a desire not to be bothered with her. Of course, knowing Achren, both the assertion and the implication could be outright false...but she had had no way of finding out. That would change when she got to Caer Dathyl. If anyone knew the truth of her people and her history, the Sons of Don would.

A new thought broke upon her like an incoming tide. Suppose it was all Achren's lies - suppose she still had a family; parents even; suppose she got to Caer Dathyl to find that they'd been searching for her for years, and, reunited, they'd take her off to her ancestral home by the sea. She felt her heartbeat quicken, lips part breathless, and silently mouthed the strange, alien word _mother_.

_Daughter of Angharad, daughter of Regat. _What did it even mean?

She was lost in a waking dream for a long while before the practical side of her mind poked at her, pricking at the fantasy future she'd begun to construct until it deflated. After all, if her parents, or any of her immediate family were alive, surely they would have found her. The enchantresses of Llyr had been a power to rival the Sons of Don - even Achren admitted that, with obvious disgust at their lack of interest in doing so - so there would have been rumors of them, and no power of Achren, who'd been neither unknown nor ignored, could have kept her hidden from them, had they been searching for her. She was certain of that.

No, it must be true - at least the part about her immediate family being dead. As far as the rest, who knew? But if she _did _have kin stupid enough to send her to Achren, she'd run away for good, alone if need be, before being sent back to them. If she paid attention on the way to Caer Dathyl, she ought to learn enough woodcraft and foraging skills to survive on her own in the wilderness by the time they got there. Just in case King Math turned out to be an unreasonable man, unsympathetic to the plight of homeless princesses.

Or perhaps she'd stay with Fflewddur, if he were agreeable to it. His company was so pleasant. Would a wandering bard even want company? He'd said he was glad she was with them, and his unbroken harp strings confirmed it. _Lovely man._ She smiled into the darkness, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders like an embrace. If her father _were_ alive, she'd want him to be just like Fflewddur. Strange that in all the rote memorization of her lineage, her father had never been mentioned. She did not even know his name, and it had never seemed terribly important, but she found herself wondering, now, what it was. When she tried to imagine what he might look like, a mental image of Fflewddur with bright red-gold hair was all that came to mind, and she laughed dismissively and let it go.

And Taran. Once his mission was done, he would go back to his home, she supposed - Caer Dallben, was it? Strange name, for she'd gathered, when he'd been telling his story the day before, that it was neither castle nor fortress. He had spoken of it with a longing unlike anything she had known for any place, and it made her intensely curious. What was it like? Who else lived there? He had never mentioned parents or siblings or any family at all, only names, vague and untitled. She'd rather like to see his home, but the thought of accompanying him there wasn't exactly appealing...though the thought of saying a final farewell to him wasn't, either, strangely. By all that was reasonable she should be able to send him packing with no thought but _good riddance_. _Why_ was he so confusing?

She saw again his face gilt with rosy sunset light, the emerald glint of his black-fringed eyes and the honest admiration in them. Drat him. And drat whatever made all of her warm and tingly at the memory, too.

At this inopportune moment, there was a snapping of twigs at her left, and Taran himself materialized under her tree. Eilonwy started guiltily, realizing she'd been so lost in her own thoughts she would not have noticed much of anything approaching.

"You'd better sleep," he offered. "I'll finish the watch for you."

She flushed, wondering if he'd noticed her surprise at his approach. "I'm perfectly able to do my share."

He sighed, and settled himself against a nearby oak trunk. For a few silent moments she gazed across the moonlit meadow, steadfastly determined not to ask him any of the myriad questions springing to her mind, so inward-focused that she jumped when he cleared his throat. "You know," he said falteringly, "that spiderweb..."

Oh, _Llyr_, not that. "I don't want to hear any more about it," she snapped, floundering between remorse and wounded pride.

"No, what I meant was-" his voice cracked nervously. "I really was worried about you. But the web surprised me so much I forgot to mention it." She found she was holding her breath, and let it out in a silent sigh, feeling her hunched shoulders loosen and settle like sand in the bottom of an hourglass. She looked straight ahead, too self-conscious to turn to him, and from the corner of her eye saw that he was doing the same.

"It was courageous of you to stand up against the cauldron warriors," he continued hesitantly. "I just wanted to tell you that."

Elation, irrational, bubbled up within her and she barely contained it. "It took you long enough to get around to it," she managed, and then, before she could stop herself, added, "but I imagine assistant pig-keepers tend to be slower than what you might expect. It probably comes from the type of work they do."

He turned to look at her and she took in the sardonic twist of his mouth, the quirk of his eyebrow, felt again the mix of amusement and annoyance he'd emanated back at the foot of the castle ruins, and a new thought struck her. _You're as insulting as he is. Why _had she said that?

Oh dear. "Don't misunderstand," she stammered. "I'm sure it's awfully important...only it's the sort of thing you don't often need to be quick about." Oh, blast, that wasn't what she meant at all...what _did _she mean? And was she angry with him or not?

He seemed to overlook this, however, turning his gaze back to the landscape thoughtfully. "At first I thought I would be able to reach Caer Dathyl by myself. But I see now I wouldn't have got even this far without help. It is a good destiny that brings me such brave companions."

Yes, she _was_ angry with him. "There, you've done it again. That's all you care about! Someone to help you carry spears and swords and what-all. It could be _anybody _and you'd be just as pleased. Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not speaking to you anymore." Eilonwy flopped to the ground and yanked her cloak over her head. All he wanted was a few warriors so he could play at being war-leader. Fine. Warriors need not speak to each other of anything but the task at hand; they need not try to be friends or make up quarrels or...or care at all.

That inner voice pulled at her, whispering. _If you really didn't care, nothing he said would bother you._ She snorted. Precisely. So she wouldn't. _Didn't_.

She heard him sigh, and mutter to himself. "At home nothing ever happened. Now, everything happens, but somehow I can never seem to make it come out right."

Denying an impulse to sit up and say something comforting, Eilonwy screwed her eyes shut, grit her teeth together, and pretended to sleep.


End file.
